That's the Way It Is
by Sweet Commander Katakuri
Summary: He had tried in the end he truly did, but the life of an outlaw has only one end. Even after all the good he had done and all the people he had helped, those he wronged and hurt would forever define his character. If given a second chance he may have done something different, but he could only ever see it ending the same way.
1. Prologue: East

**Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Game of Thrones or Red Dead Redemption 2, and both works belong to their respective creators. All original characters and concepts are of my own and do not represent the actual work of either previously mentioned titles.**

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 _That's the way it is_

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 **Prologue**

Death was intolerable, he figured. The rough barren ground blistered from the burning heat; his throat was dry and he had trouble breathing, his skin was toasting red and his lips chapped. He felt nauseated like his mind kept floating in and out, and side to side and the heat only made his brain cook in his skull. Only good thing that came from any of it was that he knew where he ended up.

Nothing he could've done in the end would change the upshot.

He hawked up deep red blood and spat the excess clumps - a mixture of thick lifeblood and flem - to the ground beside him. Even turning his head was impossibly difficult and the odds of lifting a single finger were out the window. His body was in excruciating pain, and the searing heat made his skin dry and wounds swell.

The floor beneath his hands was coarse and made his skin itch unbearably. How did he get... _here_? He couldn't focus enough to call up to mind the events that lead to his perdition.

He tried to open his eyes but a sharp light made him press them shut. His head started to swim and bile slowly started to creep up and out of his stomach. As his consciousness faded, the familiar sound of a horse's clop echoed across the land. And finally, it seemed that Death (while riding his pale horse) had come to cart his poor soul off further to an everlasting afterlife in the deepest bowels of Hell.

"Took damn...long enough," he wheezed out before succumbing to the rapture of sweet senselessness.

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 _That's the way it is_

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**


	2. Jorah I

**Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Game of Thrones or Red Dead Redemption 2, and both works belong to their respective creators. All original characters and concepts are of my own and do not represent the actual work of either previously mentioned titles.**

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 _The many miles we walked_

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 **JORAH**

The sweltering sun that hung high over the Red Waste burned through the spirits of the small khalasar. They had been lost in the arid wasteland for weeks and had run dry on water, and low on food and provisions. Most of their horses had gone the way of all flesh, and the Dothraki that had kept their loyalty and followed their Khaleesi through the wastes - although not wavering in their loyalty - began to question the choice of traversing the barren expanse. They followed regardless still because their Khaleesi's word was law.

It ran along the Bone Mountains and the Poison Sea. The Red Waste went for thousands of miles in all cardinal directions and was considered by many to be suicidal to cross. Dothraki khalasars feared to cross the harsh sandy wilderness; their horses collapsed to the ground by the dozen for scavenger birds and insects (that somehow managed to survive in the hell) to feast on. Jorah didn't question his Khaleesi's decision to cross the Red Waste, only followed her in the hopes of seeing her safe passage across.

The Khaleesi in question was faring as well as any of her people. She laid sprawled out beneath an awning with her back against a crumbling stone rampart. Daenerys' skin had received a red coating from the sun and covered in dirt from weeks of travel. Her lips were chapped and her golden-silver hair had been bleached white by the sun; it was knotted, unkempt and encrusted in grime. Dejected violet eyes stared blankly out into the Red Waste, seemingly searching for her remaining bloodriders.

Her eyelids were shallow, and the raging fire that he would always see in her beautiful amethyst eyes were now embers of a slowly dying flame. Even dragon fire, as hot as it burns, would eventually become just cinders.

Daenerys had been troubled for the last two days and her anxiety only grew the longer they waited. Jorah had done as much as he could to help the young Targaryen girl, but even he was susceptible to the boundless heat and found himself collapsed on a Dothraki blanket. His skin had blistered and the sun had painted his face red; his Dothraki riding leathers were covered with sand, dirt, and sweat.

The rest of the khalasar was much the same as the knight and their Khaleesi. Woman and children, and old sick men were teetering on the verge of death, and what would most likely claim their lives first would be dehydration. How many had succumbed to the wastes now, six, seven? The first had been a toothless old man, who had fallen from his horse and had died minutes later in the sand. The others were mostly the freed Lhazareen slaves, all malnourished from the start and falling dead where they stood.

It was after Doreah, a handmaiden to Daenerys, had fallen ill that the Targaryen girl made a desperate move. Daenerys spoke with her bloodriders; Rakharo, Aggo, and Kovarro, and sent them out in search of water, people, or a city. She sent Rakharo to scout the northeast, Aggo southeast, and Kovarro to the east. The khalasar depended on their return.

If they failed it would mean the end of the khalasar, the Targaryen name, and the only dragons seen in hundreds of years. They all would wither away like Vaes Tolorro and the countless other cities, claimed by the sand.

Only a few moons had passed before the first of the bloodriders' stallions returned - without it's Dothraki. A sack stained red, from a substance they would soon learn was blood, hung from the saddle. Rakharo's severed head filled the sack along with his cut braid, a message from a rival khalasar. Jorah presumed that it was the work of Khal Jhaqo, a former _ko_ to Daenerys' deceased husband Khal Drogo, now a leader of a khalasar of twenty thousand Dothraki.

The death of Rakharo was what had put Daenerys in her current downhearted state. Irri, another of her handmaidens, had taken the death of the bloodrider the hardest. She wept for his trapped soul, knowing that now he would never ride through the dark grasses of the Night Lands. Daenerys had pushed past her forlorn feelings to console the poor girl, promising to build a pyre for Rakharo so he can be received by the Great Stallion.

Now, the survival of the khalasar depended on Aggo and Kovarro.

"They will return to me." Daenerys had stated to Ser Jorah, though she seemed to be reassuring herself rather than the knight.

They were the only Dothraki warriors that remained with Daenerys during the fall of Drogo's khalasar, and they would sooner return with nothing than abandon their Khaleesi. Until they do return, Jorah rested outside the awning, keeping his steel blue eyes on the continuously expanding wasteland.

The Red Waste was no place for the living, and even the animals that managed to squirm around in the sand and dirt seemed to dislike their home. The men who had attempted to make this land their _oasis_ were all fools, Vaes Tolorro - "the city of bones" as Aggo had aptly called it - was home to such men. Some say that the sand and dust of the Red Waste was the last remains of the men and women of these oases; their flesh, souls, and the bricks of their homes eaten away by sand until the only thing that remained were the ruins. Jorah though was not convinced that Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen would crumble away into dust and fade into history.

"Even a forsaken city can make a suitable home," Jorah counselled the young Targaryen.

"A forsaken city for a forsaken queen," she had told him in reply. Now the khalasar had an encampment in a city filled with ghosts, forgotten in the waste and sand.

Jorah watched the wind carry the dust and sand over the hard arid ground; it danced across the land, as the setting sun cast an orange glow over the city Vaes Tolorro. The night was soon to arrive, and thankfully the unbearable heat will leave and the khalasar would be able to recover. The sky was painted a brilliant red, and wisps of pink clouds touched the crown of the towering mountains. Stars filled the edge of the eastern sky and a new moon pushed over the horizon.

The Dothraki believed that the stars were the fiery khalasar of the Great Stallion and that the moon is a goddess and wife to the sun. Jorah didn't believe in their customs, nor did he really believe in the customs of his homeland; the Old Gods and the Seven both held no real credence with the knight. No, what he believed in was what he could physically see - Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, a beautiful goddess who walked among man, and even now Jorah could only see her as the young woman that he had devoted his existence to.

He watched the crumbling east barbican, as that would be where Aggo and Kovarro would have to enter the encampment. They had made camp within the southeastern curtain wall, the rotting structures in the city being too unsafe for any temporary residence. It was better that way, the Dothraki prefered to sleep under their astral ancestors.

Jorah blinked away the sand in his eyes. He had yet to have a perfect night of rest in Vaes Tolorro. From his peripheral, he saw the women and old men starting to light fires as the children gathered what little kindling they could find. _Fire alone won't keep us alive if we don't find food and drink soon,_ Jorah thought with a sidelong glance to Daenerys.

Her eyes were captivated by something in the distance, past the eastern gate and sunken portcullis, beyond the curtain wall and it's desolate yard of bones, far off beneath the ascending formation of rock and earth. Expectation clouded her eyes while her neck strained to give her a hundred miles of sight; brittle and blood patched lips parted as she mouthed an unspoken orison. She swallowed a dry lump, and Jorah could see the different emotions run across the girl's face; her mouth twitched in delight and a quite chittering escaped from between her lips. The dampness in her eyes were gleaming with sparks of hope and spoke volumes of the joy that resonated from her soul.

To sate the spirit of inquiry Jorah tried to find the target of his Queen's interest. Masked by the encroaching shadow of the evening sky, a small wave of dirt rolled across the waste. Riding the wave was that of a dark silhouette of a rider in the night. Action demanded that he stand, and on weak limbs, he rose off the blanket. He grasped the grip of his sword in preparation for the unforeseen event that the rider was a threat to Daenerys and the khalasar.

"Khaleesi..." Jorah turned to see the girl pushing herself up on wobbling legs, the strain of which made it difficult for her gaunt limbs.

"It's Aggo," Daenerys uttered.

Moments later the bloodrider passed through the gate, his sea-green painted stallion cantering over to the encampment and coming to a stop before Daenerys and Jorah. Dragged behind the horse was a rough and ready canvas stretcher made from Dothraki leather, bundled sticks, and blankets; Jorah could not see what was being hauled by Aggo's horse, he only knew that it was all the bloodrider had returned with.

" _Blood of my blood, I return to you,"_ Aggo said, his voice hoarse and dry from days of roaming the Red Waste.

" _Blood of my blood,"_ Daenerys breathed out her greeting with weary elation on her visage. The smile on her lips was genuine, but Jorah could see the worry in her eyes as she examined Aggo for any injury from steel or iron. She found none, and her mother like worries were calmed. " _Tell me, have you returned with good words?"_

The bloodrider dismounted from the massive stallion with an obvious look of disgrace, of which was followed by Daenerys' own crestfallen look. Aggo approached his Khaleesi with his head bowed, hands held unsure by his sides and spoke low with hesitance, " _I return with nothing good, or bad, Khaleesi."_

" _What did you bring me?" she asked._

Aggo briskly went to the stretcher behind the horse, untethered the straps holding it to the saddle, and dragged the haul over to Daenerys where he left it at her feet. Jorah could now see the figure that lay wrapped in the Dothraki blankets; it was a man if the thick stretch of brown hair on his jawline was any indication. He was of fair complexion that had been cooked red from overexposure to the sun. The hair on his head was thick and dishevelled; light-brown almost blonde. Although his face was red from the sun, he was noticeably pale around the eyes and cheeks, the color almost a sickly yellow. Jorah noticed that around his lips and in patches staining his beard were dry dark-red clumps of blood.

Daenerys looked at the unconscious man with an intrigued stare. She kneeled by his side, her eyes scrutinizing every detail of his face and trying to find out all she could; what kind of man he was, where he was from, and where his loyalty lies. It was all in her mind, Jorah knew that just by looking at a man that she'd never know the answers to her questions. All except for where he was from; the man looked Westerosi, and Daenerys picked up on that significant detail while sending a knowing look to Jorah.

" _I bring you strange Andal,"_ Aggo said.

" _Where did you find him?"_ Daenerys looked back to the man as she heard him struggle through a series of ragged coughs.

Jorah had to hold himself back from moving to stop Daenerys as she placed her hand on the man's forehead. She brushed away his dirt and grim covered hair and waited for the man to calm before looking back to her _ko_.

" _I found him in the sands, Khaleesi."_

" _You came across him in the middle of a desert?"_ She asked, eying Aggo with a sceptical look. " _Were there others with him?"_

" _I came across him in my search, this is true,"_ Aggo said, sure of his answer even if it was nonsensical and unlikely. " _He was alone and near death when I found him. I stopped the bleeding and brought him with me."_

Jorah looked to the man laying on the ground below him; his breathing was irregular and Jorah could hear faint wheezes and quiet coughs. The man was sick, of that Jorah was sure. "It was not wise of you to bring him back here," Jorah said in the Common tongue. Daenerys directed a glare towards the knight and was ready to speak her opinion against his. "We are without food and water. Bringing this man in only means another mouth to feed, another mouth that will provide us with nothing-" Jorah was interrupted by a violent hack from the man followed by shorter, softer coughs. "He is sick, Khaleesi. Keeping him here will only be a burden on the khalasar."

"What would you have me do with him then, Ser Jorah?" She asked.

He had to be cautious with his answer as the wrong response would most likely lead the girl into distrusting his counsel, and second-guessing his actions in the future if they managed to survive long enough to see civilization. Daenerys had a bleeding heart, a redeemable quality in a ruler that could, but it could lead to many foolish decisions if left unquestioned, and as the young Queen's sole advisor in preparing her to rule over seven kingdoms it was up to him to help her learn to make decisions based on rationality, even when it's the unfavorable choice.

"You have a khalasar of a hundred Dothraki that are looking to you for guidance," Jorah said while Daenerys looked around to behold a small crowd that had gathered to see the bloodrider and who he returned with. The starving woman, children, and old men stood watching Daenerys, waiting for the news that would bring them deliverance, or their demise. "It is your duty to care for your people before all others. This man is not of the khalasar and is of no concern to you, and should not be treated before all the other sick that we have. The best you can do is leave him in one of the buildings, away from the khalasar."

"Then what of him when we leave? Are you suggesting that I leave him here to die?" Daenerys' brows furrowed and her tone grew dark.

"You don't have to leave him, but allow Aggo or me to give him mercy." Jorah chose his words carefully, not wanting Daenerys to think that the action of taking a sick and innocent man's life as abhorrent.

"Would that be mercy?" She asked incredulously. "Taking the life of a man who was fortunate enough to be found and rescued from the desert, only to be killed in his sleep by those who saved him? Is that what you call mercy, Ser Jorah?"

"It is when rescue was never an option. We don't have the supplies to care for another sick man," Jorah said as he turned to Aggo, "you should have left him where you found him."

"I bring man to Khaleesi, not to Jorah the Andal." The Dothraki bloodrider retorted.

Daenerys scowled at the Westerosi knight before bringing her attention to her bloodrider, "Why did you bring me this man, Aggo?"

Aggo knelt beside the stranger and unbound the blanket, pulling it off to reveal the form beneath. Jorah saw where Aggo had wrapped layer upon layer of cloth over the man's chest, but raised an eyebrow at the unusual apparel that he donned. "The strange Andal wears strange cloth," Aggo asserted.

Strange was possibly an embellishment from the Dothraki as all attire from Westeros and the Free Cities of Essos were deemed strange or were considered trivial to the way of life in a horde which demanded strong leather chaps and light fabric. Even still, they were different to what the knight and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms would consider normal; the design of the clothing was odd and the stitching seemed finer than what a lowborn westerner would be able to come by in Essos. That's if the man Aggo found _is_ lowborn. Jorah couldn't recognize him from any northern house, and he had a more southern look than that of a northerner, possibly a scion from a small house in the Reach or even the Westerlands? If he was a man of Westeros or simply a bastard born of a whore in Volantis, it still did not explain how he arrived in the Red Waste, who had injured him and left him to die, and where he managed to attain his clothing?

As to who injured the man, Jorah couldn't be more perplexed. Dothraki weren't known to travel the waste and the only people foolish enough to attempt to travel across hundreds of miles of nothing were all safe behind the walls of Vaes Tolorro. The mystery that was the strange man only grew further as he examined the clothing more closely; he wore a tanned leather jerkin with black-leather collars over a blue shirt with a striped pattern that tucked into dark trousers and dark boots. The light blue shirt was stained red from a wound on his chest, and a black handkerchief hung loosely around his neck, untied so as not to strangle the unconscious man. Jorah spied more blood on the man's right side, staining the leather in the same dark red color.

Daenerys, curious as she was, fiddled with the collar lapels of the man's jerkin while she focused on the crude bandages used to halt the bleeding wound on his chest. The cloth used to cover the injury was moist and was a reddish-brown hue with grains of sand and dirt sticking to the stains. Jorah could see the wariness in Daenerys' eyes, but it was overshadowed with sympathy for the stranger.

"These were on him, Khaleesi," Aggo said, having pulled three items from his saddlebag and setting them down before Daenerys, "strange things."

The items placed before Daenerys were strange, Jorah had thought, but of the three there was one that stuck out more than the rest, and Daenerys seemed to think the same. She reached out, lifting up the strange item in her hand and examined it; the black leather was worn, and a thin rope snaked around the base of the crown. It pinched near the top and grew wide at the brim to where it curved up at the sides and dipped at the front and back. With a simple motion, Daenerys placed it on her head and let it sink down till it covered her brow. The brim of the headwear concealed her eyes and Jorah found it difficult to read the thoughts that would so plainly run across her face.

The two remaining items laying in a heap at Daenerys' knees were a leather belt and a satchel that was bursting at the seams of whatever contents were stashed away inside. Daenerys reached for the belt which happened to be the closest to her.

From what Jorah could see it was a common leather belt with a brass buckle but had six loops with small brass cylinders on either side of the buckle. There were two wide leather sheaths; one immediately to the left of the buckle and the other on the right of the belt. The sheaths were both strange, not like anything he had seen before in his time as a knight in the Seven Kingdoms and while travelling as a sellsword in Essos; they were too wide to hold any dagger and not like a normal sheath for a sword.

Daenerys went for a white handle that stuck out of the right sheath like a curved sword pommel. She pulled out a small piece of metal roughly the length of her forearm. It was oddly shaped, with the center being shaped like a cylinder and connecting to a long pipe-like shaft. He couldn't tell from where he stood, but the contraption looked to be made of blued steel and silver with gold engravings snaking across the length of the piece. Daenerys held it in both her hands before gently placing it to the ground without a word.

She pulled the next piece of equipment from its sheath and held it in an unwieldy manner. Jorah was unable to see the girl's eyes but could see the corner of her lips dip down into a frown. What she had removed from the stranger's belt was...odd; it was bulky compared to the last contraption, and had two pipes as opposed to just the one, welded together and placed onto a wooden handle, and held together with brass.

"What do you make of this, Ser Jorah?" She asked, looking up to him so he could see her confused amethyst eyes.

"I'm afraid I do not know, Khaleesi," he said while eying the wooden oddity, "I've never seen a trinket quite like it."

Daenerys hummed and placed it down next to the slimmer trinket and belt. The last of the three was the man's satchel, and Jorah guessed that if they would get any answers to who the man was it would be in his travelling bag.

The Queen grabbed the satchel, struggling to lift it in weak arms, and flipped it over so that its contents could tumble to the rough ground below. Different entities hit the ground and piled up before Daenerys; folded papers, packets, and tin cylinders crumbled to the base while red pipes, knives, and stacks of light green paper heaped together into an unorganized mess. They were unusual things to carry, and Daenerys seemed to think so too, but her wide eyes and sudden hitch in breath made Jorah inspect the pile more closely.

Jorah's eyes widened and his throat became more noticeably parched at the sight of a glass bottle containing what appeared to be rum. He knelt down before his Khaleesi and the pile and began looking over the strange tins and packets. There were images of fruit and biscuits on the tins and strange colored boxes all with names and places written in bold letters; one read _Hedley Baking Co. Assorted Biscuits_ , and another _Schmitz Baked Beans_. He grabbed a tin with the image of a peach and noticed that while the tin itself was made of an extremely light metal, the contents inside had a certain weight and feel of multiple fruits. Jorah probed for an opening and found a thin tab at the top; he pulled the tab until he heard the sound of the thin metal top being pulled from its position and the peaches inside became visible, the smell eliciting what little saliva he had remaining to moisten his lips.

" _Aggo,"_ Daenerys' call for the bloodrider brought his attention back to the girl and to the new pile of stacked tins and packets. " _Make sure that the food is spread equally among the woman and children first, followed by the men. Give larger portions to the sick, but only after the others have eaten."_

" _Do I feed the Lamb Men? They are not of the Khaleesi's horde."_

" _The Lamb Men have been granted their freedom and followed me, their Khaleesi, with love and loyalty,"_ Daenerys said. Her tone was harsh but firm, and Aggo's belief held no sway with his sworn Khaleesi. " _They were once slaves to my husband Drogo, but now are people of my horde. You will treat them as they are your own, and feed them as your own."_

The Dothraki bloodrider had no more say in the matter, his Khaleesi had spoken. He gathered the assortment of tins and packets and went about his orders of distributing the food amongst the khalasar. Jorah watched as the starving crowd began to chatter in delight, but the knight knew that there wasn't enough for it to satisfy their hunger. It may be a small victory in their battle against the Red Waste but they would still lose the war for survival if they didn't find an oasis soon.

There was a shuffling from the pile and Jorah turned to find Daenerys with a leather book in her frail hands. She unfastened the strap and opened it to the first page, her eyes scanning the pages in keen interest. Daenerys flipped another page followed by another, and another, and another before returning back to the cover and examining the first page more thoroughly. It had only been seconds, before Daenerys called for the Westerosi knight, "What do you make of this?"

She handed the book to him, and Jorah scanned the first two pages. On the left were columns with letters and numbers, that increased the further down the page he read: his best guess was that it was a ledger of sorts. The next page was a briskly drawn map of a town with the name _Blackwater_ scribbled down in the corner. He flipped to the next page and was greeted with a similar map drawn with more care and with the same name labelling the drawing, the only difference was a series of _x's_ marking various points and a single _A_ with arrows leading to a distinct building.

"I don't know, Khaleesi," Jorah said while handing the book back to the girl. "It seems to be a ledger, while the maps are just scrawled nonsense."

"But the town, Blackwater? Is that not in Westeros?" She asked.

"It is of Westeros, but it's not a town. Blackwater Bay is where King's Landing meets the Narrow Sea, and the map in this book does not resemble any map of King's Landing I have seen. The Red Keep, the Great Sept of Baelor, nor even Flea Bottom are shown to be on that map. "

"Then what is it?"

"A new village off the Blackwater perhaps. Although, that wouldn't explain why he is here in Essos with such plans." He hadn't been in Westeros for years, ever since his exile, and hasn't been to King's Landing for even longer. It would be of no surprise if new villages had been erected around the continent, especially near the capital, and for once familiar land to be ploughed and built upon. Westeros was a different country than what he would remember, and he would even say that he was a different and changed man.

"Irri, Jhiqui," Daenerys called to her two handmaidens who had remained close to Daenerys in case they were needed. "Have our guest moved out from under the sky, to a more accommodating setting, so as to repay him for gifting us these supplies. I want him kept safe, so I may have my questions answered when he wakes."

The two servants of Daenerys went about her command with haste, using the leather straps to move the man and stretcher over under an awning. They blanketed him and checked the wounds inflicted upon him. The old knight wouldn't have so easily agreed to let the stranger live with such injuries, but he was an enigma that he also wanted to solve.

Daenerys moved towards her awning, the book clasped in both hands. She slowly let herself fall to the Dothraki blanket beneath her, her back resting on a collapsed chunk of the curtain wall, and her legs sprawled out in front of her. Jorah moved over to her side, sympathy reflecting in his eyes at seeing such a strong girl reduced to an exhausted and weak state. It became more apparent how hungry the Targaryen was as a soft rumble came from her stomach.

Getting to his knee, Jorah presented the open tin of peaches to the Mother of Dragons. She looked at the tin while keeping an impassive face, but the audible sound of her swallowing and her tongue wetting her chapped lips revealed her true feeling to the knight. "You must eat, Khaleesi."

"Give it to those who are starving," she said after some time in thought.

"I'll give it to you," Jorah insisted.

"I will eat once my people stop falling from hunger."

"And who do expect will lead them if you fall?" Daenerys was hesitant but reached to take the tin; her morals as a leader telling her to feed the people, but soon the hunger took over and she began eating the cut peaches one at a time. Before long the tin was empty of fruit and the juice was all that remained. Greedily she tipped it over to drink from it like a mug, pink and orange juice dripping down her chin and neck.

"I'll collect the man's equipment for you, and try to give it a sense of order for when you want to go through it," Jorah said as he took his leave, returning to the pile of the man's possessions. He picked up each item individually, giving them a critical look before stuffing them into the satchel.

They remained in the ruined Vaes Tolorro for three moons since Aggo's return, their reprieve from starvation had been short-lived. While more sick and hungry died, Daenerys had a small group of men lead by Aggo to tear up the stone plaza in search of water. It was a smart choice to search there, where the devil grass grew, even with the lack of results that came of it.

There had been little for the knight to do, from keeping an eye on Daenerys and looking at their guest's equipment. The day after Aggo's return, Jorah woke to find Daenerys with the leather book in her hands and her nose buried in the pages.

"Have you heard of California?" She had asked him, and her unsurprised disappointment to his response left her to nothing more than imagination and what was written in such a confusing book.

On the second day of Aggo's return, there had been a commotion from within the camp. Irri ran to Daenerys with labored breaths and blood smeared on her palms and leathers. She explained to Daenerys in Dothraki that the man they were charged to keep alive had gone through a strong coughing fit and had reopened the gaping wound on his chest. If nothing were to be done he would surely bleed to death.

Daenerys and Jorah moved quickly to the awning where he had been moved to and found Jhiqui along with numerous other women ranging from Dothraki healers to former Lhazareen slaves, all working to stop the bleeding and close the wound. The stench of blood had become strong and Jorah was sure that some would find the smell sickening, but the old knight was accustomed to it.

They had managed to stem the bleeding and clean the wound. The pink flesh exposed to air started to turn black, and the skin and muscle began to die. So close to the heart, the man would have been days from death if they didn't remove the decaying flesh. The Dothraki had suggested cutting off the dead flesh, but it would cause more bleeding that would likely have caused his heart to stop. The Lhazareen had stated that putting maggots inside the wound would allow it to heal, which Jorah agreed with; maesters would put maggots in aged injuries to eat the dead skin and muscle.

It was up to Daenerys for how they would save the man from his assured death. Jorah stood with the Lhazareen and explained to her the benefits of using the maggots while Irri explained the Dothraki method of cutting out the corruption. Her silence was taken as simple contemplation of her options, but her response surprised the knight. "The maggots have all died from hunger. Burn away the decaying flesh."

She left the awning after stating her wishes, to return to her own where she would continue to read the leather book. Jorah stayed, to watch over the cauterization of the wound and to ensure that the procedure was done properly and that they didn't literally burn the man alive.

They started a fire using the dry devil grass torn from the city plaza, and the empty packets they had taken from the man and had placed it into a pit made from stones of the curtain wall. A sizeable fire grew from the kindling, and in it, they placed the curved blade of an arakh, and when the crescent-shaped weapon began to glow as red as the evening sky, they pulled it from the fire and covered the wound on the man's chest.

There was an audible gasp from the man, but no struggle was given and the procedure ended as soon as it began. The smokey stench of burning flesh replaced that of blood, something that the Lhazareen found revolting while the Dothraki were more welcoming. And with the corruption burnt away, and the man's life safe in the hands of women, he returned to his blanket to wait for Kovarro's return.

On the third day, Jorah stood looking out across the red waste, with an oddly designed monocular in his hands. He looked through the two lenses as opposed to just one, finding it simpler to use and easier on his eyes. He could see farther than he could naturally and was able to see details in the distance that no current lookout could possibly do.

Across the yard of bones, Jorah saw a moving mass of dust much larger than that of three days ago. In the cloud he saw four riders, three were mounted on ugly humped creatures that had long curved necks and bone-skinny legs that looked as if they would snap with every step the animal took. The last rider was on horseback and leading the three others to their encampment.

Jorah stood at Daenerys' side as the riders entered through the east gate. Kovarro entered first on a gold painted black stallion, and behind him, the three queer riders approached on their humped creatures.

" _Blood of my blood,"_ Kovarro announced, " _I have been to the great city Qarth, and returned with three who would look on you with their own eyes."_

Daenerys simply eyed the three strangers behind her bloodrider before looking at Kovarro. He was unharmed and looked to be cleaner and had more meat over his bones than when he had left the khalasar.

"Here I stand. Look, if that is your pleasure, but first, tell me your names."

" _I am Pyat Pree, the great warlock."_ The first to answer was a pale man with blue lips. He spoke in Dothraki and seemed well versed in the language of the nomadic people.

The next was a swarthy man with a bald head and jewels in his nose. He spoke in Valyrian, the language of the Free Cities, " _I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos of the Thirteen, a merchant prince of Qarth."_

The last to speak was a woman who wore a lacquered wooden mask and spoke in the Common Tongue, "I am Quaithe of the Shadow. We come seeking dragons."

"Seek no more," Daenerys told them. "You have found them."

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 _The many things we learn_

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 **Just because I want him to, Arthur did not hand over his hat and satchel to John. Just. Because.**

 **Micah stabbed Arthur in the sternum - pretty deep if that low honor cutscene was anything to go by - and whether the knife pierced his trachea I'm pretty sure that it did. (For this story I'm just gonna go ahead and assume otherwise). The literal and metaphorical backstab went into, and possibly through, Arthur's left kidney (or lung depending on how you perceive it); either way, that did not happen in this variation. The wound at the beginning of their confrontation doesn't look to have hit anything important, so I'll keep it as a "minor" stab wound.**

 **So in short, Micah managed to beat Arthur in the struggle, and after Dutch leaves, Micah also leaves instead of putting Arthur down.**

 **Next chapter I'll be giving better descriptions of the equipment and weapons Arthur has on him as well as posting the stats for Arthur's weapons i.e. what engravings they are and the metal used for each part of the weapons.**

 _ **Sweet Commander Katakuri's Review Corner**_

 **Guest: Dec. 16th** **-** You will get more.

 **Guest: Dec. 17th #1** **-** I can understand why you would prefer the other, but that's not what this story will be. I would appreciate it if you stuck around and read it regardless, but I can't change the entire outline to fit that change. BUT! I was actually throwing around the idea of the Van der Linde gang travelling west across Essos, and ending up in the service of Viserys. Obviously Dutch would never actually follow Viserys commands, but…

 **Guest: Dec. 17th #2** **-** I can really see Hosea as a Lannister, it's almost too perfect! But Arthur would probably be a bastard of a lesser house, same as Micah, and Dutch I can see being a Baratheon.

 **Guest: Dec. 17th #3** **-** Equipment and all...hmmm...or at least what he happened to be carrying when he went back for the money.

 **Perseus 12** **-** Thanks! I'm trying to get as many amazing chapters out as I can before my terminal lumbago gets me!

 **Hannibal the Bahamut** **-** Why George R.R. Martin didn't have cowboys in Essos from the start is beyond me!

 **theAtomicTitan0** **-** Explaining in game mechanics in a written story, asides from taking the easy way out and saying that it's magic and then I wouldn't have to explain it, is a lot of trouble. Arthur's satchel is literally supporting all that it can.

 **jagerhunter00** **-** Dany seems like she could be the Dutch of Essos, but there are far better contenders for the title of the "Dutch of ASOIAF" in the Seven Kingdoms.

 **TheReaperCommander** **-** The weapons I gave him are literally what I had the most fun using while playing the game, nothing more to it really, asides from wanting a six-shooter, and a shotgun that would eviscerate the armored knights of Westeros.

 **Brady420** **-** I have some gunslinger fanservice planned out that I. Am. Sure. Everyone will love.

 **Mugiwara N0 Luffy** **-** I'm glad you still enjoyed it, and now it is a much longer and fleshed out chapter! His ammo is a huge plot thread for this story, because, as you said, it ain't easy making bullets, so a lot of tension will come from this, and it will only make fights where Arthur goes on a full-blown shootout more entertaining and stressful!

 **mypowers045** **-** Thanks, and I'm glad you enjoyed!

 **Misterio 619** **-** Thanks, and I'm glad you enjoyed!

 **Lafayette** **-** It brings _me_ joy knowing that someone really likes my story and my writing!

 **Guest: Jan. 5th** **-** There was no way that the food Arthur had on him would be enough to sate 100 starving people. So, what happened is every person got like 1 bean and ¼ a cracker or biscuit.

 **hansolo18** **-** An odd crossover indeed :)

 **GrapeFanta** **-** Thank you so much! I agree that the description is off for the guns, I felt weird while describing them mainly because I was trying to use the kind of vocabulary that a person of that time would use to describe such a contraption. I really feel like I made it flow better in this revised chapter though.

 **Blinded in a bolthole** **-** With what Arthur has seen, seeing dragons would just be another ordinary day for the unordinary outlaw. I changed up Jorah's view on the weapons THIS chapter because he wasn't inspecting them up close, but we will get his full assumption on what they are in the next chapter.

 **Big Thanks To Everyone That Has Followed And Favorited The Story!**

 **Remember, if you have a question you can Private Message me or leave a Review and I will reply! If you PM me I'll be able to answer any questions before the release of a new chapter!**

 _ ***P.S.***_ I'm looking for a beta reader for when I'm done writing and post editing my chapters, it's just a lot of work for me to continuously read through it and even still I might miss some mistakes. So, if you're interested just PM me and we will see.

 **Thank You, Everyone!**


	3. Daenerys I

**Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Game of Thrones or Red Dead Redemption 2, and both works belong to their respective creators. All original characters and concepts are of my own and do not represent the actual work of either previously mentioned titles.**

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 _The building of a shrine_

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 **DAENERYS**

 _'Met some old drunk in Valentine. Claimed he was a shootist. Seemed more like a clown. Some poor fool was writing a book about him, or trying to. Levin was the name of the writer. Jim Calloway was the killer. Apparently Levin needs more information. Asked me to find a few folk who have spent more time in publicity than me and knew old Jim back when he was a real killer. Their names are Emmet Granger, Flaco Hernández, Billy Midnight, and Black Belle._

 _'Sound like a troupe of Clowns. We shall see what kinds of people those who want to be famous murderers is. My hopes are not too high.'_

Dany stopped and flipped another page in the leather-bound book as a soft gust of wind blew through her silver hair, carrying with it the sultry warmth of summer's end and the continuous wealth of the sun's dwindling light that kissed her ivory skin.

Crossed and twisted letters danced across the page in a form like she had never read before. Words came to life with the attentive drawings of lovely creatures and country that adorned the pages on the left, and around the passages on the right. There were sketches of horses loping through large fields with flora and surmised greenery; plants by the names of American Ginseng that was leaf-like with sharp edges; Indian Tobacco that had drooping flowers blooming from a thin stalk; Wild Mint that had been drawn similarly to the ginseng but was stacked to differentiate itself; and a ball-shaped flower that projected outward of itself with what looked to be conifers and was labeled as Burdock Root.

She had learned much from the pages in the journal. She learned of men and women who turned away from their society to seek freedom from a civilised world and live off the land with romantic dreams of the west. Dany read about men named Dutch and Hosea, and of Micah and Marston. She read about a girl by the name of Jenny, whom they had found on the side of a road, and of the mother Abigail.

The stories of the man's past, the mysteries of which had brought her entertainment in the past few days, had brought about her curiosity of the places and people depicted through drawings and text. She greatly enjoyed the entries involving the man named Hosea the most, and how her guest wrote of him. Unlike the others, he seemed to show a greater fondness for the man who he claimed was an _artist of nonsense_. What piqued her curiosity were the next few entries of the men known to her as Dutch and Micah, and their supposed plan to steal from a boat called a ferry - a name she initially thought belonged to the sole vessel. Dany's conceptual vision of the ferry's appearance was revamped when shown a drawing of the ship. It was like none she's ever seen.

There was a place to the west known as California that the journal broached upon on several pages, but when she consulted her sworn protector and closest friend Jorah Mormont about her inquiries she was told there was no such place. He had labeled the book a mummer's script and claimed that the entries were all part of a fantasy that the man had conceived.

"It is no more a journal than the King of Westeros is a king," he said.

Even still, if the stories and the people were all fabrications of the man's own creativity, it was an interesting read. Different compared to all the dusty tomes she was gifted at Pentos, with words and drawings more alive than the men who wrote such old books. And as of since she last saw him, the author was just as alive as her, if only just.

There were illustrations in the journal of things she has never seen. There were men in jerkins that reached down to their knees with two rows of buttons leading up to their collars and adorning strange helms on their heads. On a page in a section labeled Camp Colter there was a sketch of long black shaft puffing out white clouds and had been mentioned to be a train. Its purpose was unknown to her, and the only mention of the train was of a man named Colm O'Driscoll who had planned to rob it, and all she knew of him was that he and Dutch hated one another.

Dany had read to the section labeled as Horseshoe Overlook and looked upon the two-page drawings with admiration. It was the depiction of a camp with large wagons and tents resting in a field surrounded by trees; people were working and possibly setting up the camp while aiding one another. There was another town of which she had read about known as Valentine, or as their guest's journal had referred to it as, a _dumpy little cattle town_. The pages were filled with drawings of people and buildings and with long passages telling of chases and of famous killers known as shootists, of which she had just read.

So, with as much keenness as a Dothraki the night before a raid, Dany continued her readings on the next page.

 _'Got into some god awful fight in the town saloon. Bill started it. He's wound so tight about something I reckon he'll start hitting himself soon enough. I was stopped from beating some big yokel to death by a local do-gooder._

 _'I could not tell if this made me pleased or_ real _angry. The local crowd seemed to want to see BLOOD_ however _._

 _'_ Afterwards _Dutch accosted me with old Josiah Trelawny, back and quite as slippery and confusing as ever. He'll come and go again, no doubt and leave none us any the wiser as to who or what he is._

 _'Trelawny told us that Sean had not been killed in Blackwater, but was a prisoner there, held by scalp hunters awaiting payment. Charles Smith, Javier and I met in Blackwater and rescued that_ loud mouthed _maniac. Before we'd even cut him free from the tree he was mouthing off at us._

 _'Javier said Blackwater is an impossible situation and I guess I had better forget about all that money. All them years wasted earning that stuff! Guess I'll never quite know what happened, but the upshot is we're on the run, and known to more folks in authority than we would like.'_

Again there had been mention of the town Blackwater, which Jorah had lately come to calling a fictitious village set on the strand of Blackwater Bay. Dany hardly could argue against the older man. Jorah had been born and raised in the Seven Kingdoms, fought for his country and travelled its lands. Unlike Daenerys, who had only been born in the Kingdom on an island centered in the Blackwater known as Dragonstone. She had no memory of her homeland, and all she knew of the Seven Kingdoms came from rotting books, the word of Ser Jorah, and the falsities from her deceased brother Viserys.

She was naive at the time, and too afraid of waking the dragon to ask if any of what Viserys would say was genuine. It was later, after her espousal with Khal Drogo, that she had learned of his lies, his greatest was claiming to be the last living dragon. Somewhere deep within herself, she knew, from the beginning, that there were no longer any dragons, they had died with her eldest brother, Rhaegar.

The world now knew to believe that a once frail little girl from Braavos had grown to be a Khaleesi who had given birth from myth and legends, three powerful drakes that would once more grow to rule the skies as dragons. And she was their mother, a true dragon in both fire and blood, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and currently a guest in the city-state of Qarth.

Her reflections brought her back to the journal in hand and to her guest. He occupied another room on the premises, unconscious, and a bewilderment that had secured residence in her thoughts. Who was he, was a common question that drifted through her mind. Dany had scrutinized his musings for hours, looking through his journal, reading and re-reading individual pages trying to interpret every little insoluble word written. Laying in her bed at night, reading under the light of a candle for hours, what had she really learned of the man?

According to his own words he was a criminal and a killer, someone called a _shootist_. He had an obsession with money, specifically with an amassment of wealth in Blackwater that he had written about on numerous pages. Dany figured that he was a bit of a cynic as well, even though he seemed to have a natural inclination to help people.

What she didn't know, and what wasn't written on any page she had read, was the name of her guest.

Dany turned to the next page finding an illustration of a pig mired and standing in its own excrement. It was drawn plump with a long snout and squat limbs, black spots and a dark underbelly. On the other page, there was the portrayal of a man who lived alongside pigs, and below was a short entry.

 _'Met Emmet Granger. I cannot think of a single man I have enjoyed seeing dead more than this bastard. Pig shit and hatred and he still threw a knife at me.'_

Pig shit and hatred did little in capturing the vile and unsightly portrait of the killer known as Emmet Granger. He was a man with a hairy lip, sunken cheeks, dead eyes that stared out of the page, and a bald head with long greasy hair that flowed down around, and from inside, his ears.

It was one of the men her guest had listed under the passage of the famous shootist, Jim Calloway. Her shootist, the one immobilised in another room and figuratively standing in his own grave, had killed the one known as Emmet. _He had killed in defense,_ Daenerys thought, knowing that killing in self-preservation was different to killing a man in self-interest. She knew the reality of the world, people kill one another for foolish reasons every day, her position as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms meant that she would have to have many men killed - not by her hand but by her word - and none were more deserving of death than the usurper and his disloyal dogs that betrayed her father.

An abrupt screech from across the room drew her attention away from the intriguing diary to the terrace. Doreah, a handmaid to the young Targaryen and former Lyseni bed slave, had one of Dany's drakes out from it's wood and thatch cage. The little fire starter was flapping scally black wings and stretching his neck as high as he could, crying for the attention of the girl and from his mother.

Dany closed the journal with her thumb pressed between the pages. "Have my children eaten today?" The smell of roasted lamb had filtered in through her nose, cooked by dragonfire in an instant. Her drakes were young, barely the size of an alley cat, yet they had learned fast the word for dragonfire in High Valyrian. _Dracarys_.

"They have, Khaleesi," Doreah replied as she brought her hand to Drogon's head, letting the tiny drake examine the pristine appendage. She had recovered well from her fever, the provisions they appropriated from their guest were enough to keep her alive until the Qartheen envoy arrived days later. Dany had feared she wouldn't survive and would succumb to her sickness and the high temperature of the Red Waste. "I had thought you kept the book only just to burn for yourself."

The Targaryen looked down at the rough leather book that laid in her lap, it's cover was unfastened and there were visible blemishes near the spine from where the shootist had likely gripped it. She'd be lying if she said that the thought of tossing the journal into a brazier and watching as the flames ate away at the dry paper, leaving nothing behind but blackened leather and grey ash, did not bring her pleasant sentiments. Though the dry pages brought to her ideas and information she had yet to see in tomes written by the maesters at the Citadel. The passages lining the pages on the right recounted events worthy of mention and were accompanied with cognate depictions on the opposing page, drawn with meticulous detail to capture the essence of what the begetter had seen. Every word oozed personality, with predisposed opinions and realities that Daenerys could only dream.

"I don't intend too," she said while unknowingly tightening her grip on the journal, her fingers crumpling the white pages. "But things could change."

The door to her chambers opened with Irri stepping in with a myriad of colorful gowns and dresses in her arms. Irri remained across the room, keeping her distance from the Lyseni, folding and organizing Dany's new Qartheen gowns that were made from the softest silk Dany had ever felt. It was like wearing the air itself; they left nothing to be hidden as even her tender nipples and supple white breasts were being liberated from the confines of the light fabric.

Even with the addition of her second handmaiden, her private chambers still were spacious enough to host a dozen others. She was a guest in the home of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a merchant prince of the port city Qarth. He had graciously granted Dany and her khalasar the hospitality of his home, a humble term given to a palace larger than even Illyrio's manse in Pentos. She had been given her own wing in the palace, large enough to accommodate all of her khalasar and more.

Her bower was large enough to be considered its own hall with an open terrace, emerald and marble floors, numerous divans, tables and other furnishings, and silk the colors of pearl and peach draping the walls. The eastern wing of the estate which her small khalasar had taken up residence was larger than many market towns. Below her chambers rested the vast gardens filled with fragrant lavender and mint. Dany had as well been gifted her own private bathing pool, at the peak of the east wing in a belvedere tower, made of a pearl-gold marble and stocked with tiny goldfish.

Xaro had been a source of abundant generosity since opening his doors to her and her khalasar. Dany didn't know what to think of the man or his motives and held her tongue at the possibility that his constant largesse would cease.

Dany threw a sidelong glance towards her resting children. Doreah had let Drogon back into his cage where he curled up under the pleasant glow of the sun. Her children had a sweet spot for the Lyseni girl, they never snapped at her when she tried to caress their scaleless skin. The handmaiden moved across the room to aid Irri with folding the garments.

The tranquil ambience of the chamber brought a content smile to her peachy lips. Moving her attention back to the journal in her hands, Dany flipped open the leather cover and was greeted by the _welcoming_ visage of Emmet Granger. She tugged the page over till his dead eyes no longer could regard her with ire, caring little if her forceful gesture tore the page in two.

Dany didn't know what to expect to see on the next page; more swine, or a full portrait of the vile man. Thankfully, she did not have to see anything as repellent as that. Instead, she saw an illustration of a strange wooden contraption drawn with meticulous detail and very similar to the weapon she had pulled from the shootist's belt.

She picked up her reading on the following page, curious to see what he had to say on the weapon made of wood and metal.

 _'Colm O'Driscoll slipped through our fingers once more and I saw my own life slip through mine. That gentle buffoon we kidnapped up in the mountains took us to a cabin. We were planning to kill Colm but he had just gone elsewhere. We shot a bunch of his boys and one was about to end my life when Kieran shot him. This FEUD, it's bled out from Dutch and Colm's mutual hatred into a loathing that permeates all of us and all of them._

 _'Still, I found quite a shotgun in the cabin.'_

A sliver of light presented itself as the name of such a fascinating weapon. "Shotgun," Dany said to herself, testing the new and unusual word on her tongue.

"Did you say something, Khaleesi?"

Dany lifted her head to see Doreah looking at her with a coy smile, and Irri glaring at her fellow handmaiden. Doreah had settled down at the end of the large bed, a sky blue gown folded on her lap with a small pile of gold and bronze bands engraved with amethyst and ruby-eyed dragons mingling. They were bewitching and gleamed in the waning light and just some of the many treasures gifted to Daenerys by their lavish host.

"A Khaleesi does not answer to you!" Irri's irate response didn't come as a surprise to either the lady or woman of easy virtue. _"Apologizes, Khaleesi. This one knows no manners, and should learn to hold her tongue before oneself."_

Irri gave another long-casted glare to Doreah, who returned it with a coy smile and modest look in her eyes. The handmaids were something akin to sisters after having been gifted to Dany during her wedding. They were nothing but slaves at the time, growing alongside the young Khaleesi as she traversed the great Dothraki Sea. Of the three handmaidens, Irri was the more critical, always reprimanding Doreah for crass statements and acting as the responsible sibling while Jhiqui filled the role of eldest.

"Oh, Irri. Don't speak like that, you've been curious of the book as much as I have," Doreah said. "You've seen this man, have you not? Are you not the least bit curious as to what he's like?"

"The man is our Khaleesi's guest. We are to follow Khaleesi's will and to serve her in any way we can."

Doreah clapped her hands together in a mirthful fashion as she instigated her plan to tease the Dothraki. "It's been some time since you've had Rakharo, are you saying that you haven't entertained the idea of finding another man?"

"Doreah," Dany interrupted, having seen the sorrowful look on Irri's face. "Irri, could you go and check on our guest."

"At once, Khaleesi." Irri moved away from the bed and toward chamber door, throwing a final look to Doreah before exiting the room. With the young Dothraki handmaiden gone, Dany gave her full attention to the Lyseni girl.

"Why did you mention Rakharo to her?" She asked, while her eyes leveled on the handmaiden. "I would find it surprising if you didn't know what my bloodrider meant to Irri. So, why would you say that?"

"Please forgive me for my careless choice of words, Khaleesi," Doreah said. "I simply have the best intentions in mind for Irri."

A knock at the door and a call from Jhiqui drew the attention of the two maidens. Daenerys called the handmaiden in to which Jhiqui pushed open the thin wooden door. _"Light of the evening, Khaleesi. Jorah the Andal has requested your presence."_

Dany hummed and removed herself from the comfortable bed, stretching her porcelain legs out before standing to her full height in the light of the descending sun. She followed the Dothraki woman out of her chambers with journal still in hand and leaving Doreah with the instruction to look after her children. Out in the stone and gold hallways, Jhiqui led Dany through the pillar supported corridors and past the lavender gardens. The powerful scent of mint wafted into the cloister and brought goose pimples to her arms.

She made small talk with the older woman, inquiring into her views on the palace and her daily duties within the walls of their new home. Dany was somewhat familiar with the happenings of her handmaid's during the time in which they weren't by her side or completing a task for her or Ser Jorah. Jhiqui and Irri remained amongst the khalasar, aiding in caring for their sick as well as looking after their guest. Doreah expanded her duties to that of an unofficial member of the palace hands, eagerly exploring the endless halls and innumerable rooms of spectacular opulence.

Dany had sent Irri off to care for their bedridden guest - again the man occupied her thoughts. _"Was there any change in our guest's condition?"_

 _"None, Khaleesi, the Andal continues to rest."_ Jhiqui's answer was relaxed and seemingly unconcerned towards the man's health. The man was a forced responsibility to the Dothraki woman and was an unwelcome addition to the khalasar when found. Many had suggested that they leave him and appropriate his belongings, Ser Jorah being the torch-bearer for such thinkers. Dany could hardly argue, the world is a place where the strong eat the weak.

And dragons preyed on all creatures. Yet the mystery of a still living man in the land of the dead and decayed was bemusing, tantalizing even!

 _"Hm, I want to know the moment he wakes,"_ Dany said.

Jhiqui bowed her head in acknowledgement, _"Of course, Khaleesi."_

Dany spent the remainder of their walk enjoying the silent ambience of the deserted halls, with even the bustling sounds of the city roads and port being mere mutterings. Moments of peace such as this came as milk and honey to the Targaryen, she could hardly remember a time where she was at true harmony with herself. It must have been when she and her brother, Viserys, lived in the Free City of Braavos, in the house with the red door - a childhood long since lost to her.

She had come a long way, and there were still many miles between her and the Iron Throne.

Jhiqui led her through a short hallway lined with shining suits of armor made of silver and gold holding ornamented swords and shields, and prolonged spears with tips in the shape of spades. They were live steel, master crafted by wandering smiths who settled down and made the port city their home. Three-headed dragons had been embroidered on the sleek black and red cloaks that adorned the lifeless suits of armor and crested on the shields. Prolonged engravings of dragon fire ran along the edges of the steel blades distorting the dwindling sunlight till it appeared that the knights wielded swords of a blazing flame. Xaro claimed that the quality of the blades matched even those forged in Old Valyria.

At the end of the hall was a set of heavy wooden doors guarded by two Dothraki by the names Viito and Kaffatto. They parted before their Khaleesi, pushing the doors open for her languid entry.

Dany stepped into the large ceilingless chamber where Ser Jorah kindly waited for her. The room was an open terrace that overlooked the Great Bazaar and gave a breathtaking view of the Jade Gates and all the merchant ships that sailed into port through the sea-green waters. Overhead were multiple vermillion shrouds used to provide shade during the day's zenith. Ser Jorah stood over a round table with an emerald varnished top, where a series of objects had been laid out along the surface of the table. He had changed out of the damp Dothraki riding leathers for a simple light cloth tunic, pants and leather boots, and still carrying a sword on his hip.

The sound of the door opening alerted Jorah of their arrival. "Good evening, Khaleesi," he greeted.

"Ser Jorah," she responded in kind.

Dany turned to Jhiqui and dismissed her with a grateful smile and watched as the handmaid bowed her head before she moved back through the door, Viito and Kaffatto closing the wooden doors behind her. She approached the round table, coming to a stop at the knight's side.

"Still haven't put it down I see. Has it been entertaining?" Jorah asked, noticing the leather book still held in her hand.

In protest to his statement, Dany set the journal down on the table, next to what she recognized as her guest's brown leather satchel. "It was charming if a bit difficult to read," Dany answered. "You had requested my presence, Ser Jorah? I doubt you called me here to share vittles, so do you care to explain what this is about?"

"You'd have to excuse me for calling you so late in the evening, Khaleesi," he said, "but I knew you'd want to hear my observations regarding our guest's personal effects."

She was curious, very curious. The last she had seen the strange equipment she was too delirious from thirst, and the heat of the Red Waste to properly scrutinize it, being concerned only with the safety of her people and her dragons. Dany remembered back to when she pulled the peculiar piece of metal from the leather belt. It had held a design of which she had never seen, not in Braavos or Pentos, or in the villages pillaged by the Dothraki, and not even here in Qarth, a city far to the east, had a tool ever graced the bazaars with its curious luster.

"Very well, proceed."

Ser Jorah nodded his head and directed her attention to the pearl-handled weapon laying on the green surface. In the journal, the man had claimed to be a shootist, someone who had killed men, potentially as a living. Was this the tool that he used? "I had tried to the best of my ability to understand where these had originated from, and who could have crafted such a fine weapon."

"So, it is a weapon, you think?" Dany asked, having assumed already that the block of metal was a tool used for the slaughter of men, or for protecting oneself. Jorah's impression only worked to strengthen such perceptions.

"Aye," Jorah said while pointing to a thin piece of silver directly under a silver cylinder and preceding the pearl handle. "The pull here is similar to the triggers of some crossbows."

It had become hard to believe, even with Ser Jorah's avowal, something she had learned she could trust; Dany couldn't imagine that such a small contraption could fire the projectiles of a crossbow that was roughly as long as her forearm. "How could something this small fire crossbow bolts, or even arrows?"

The knight made a noise of agreement, something that made the young Targaryen happy. She had not been the only one stewing in her own thoughts of confusion. Dany watched as the knight grabbed the leather belt from the table, dragging it to the forefront of the table, and letting it sprawl out at great lengths. From the front of the belt, Jorah pulled out five cylinders made of brass, hardly the size of her little finger, from the many loops going around the belt. He placed them in her expectant hand, the cold feeling of the metal a drastic difference to the heat of the evening. "I suspect that these are what it shoots."

"But how could something so small be used in such a way?" Dany asked as she marveled at the small size, much the same as nail or door bolt, but more refined.

"I'm unsure, Khaleesi, but I discovered something interesting when I began measuring them." On the table were a manifold of scientific devices ranging from measuring rods to calipers, and brass scales to a pail filled with water sat beside a pile of dissimilar coins, bars of metal, and spoons holding crops of barley, wheat, rice, and corn. "For their weight, I measured them each individually and found that they all weigh in roughly more than two-hundred-and-twenty grains, not unremarkable for their size and material. I then measured for their length and diameter and found it to come to eleven and five tenths in diameter, and thirty-six and three tenths for its length in millimeters. What was remarkable was that each individual article came to the exact same length and diameter - not a single one was near to being half a centimeter off."

Dany stood motionless, her eyes gaping at the brass projectiles in her hand. She was awestruck, unable to pull her eyes away from an astonishing sight to look at the knight. "How is that possible?" She asked, her voice only just a whisper. "To craft scores of metal with such precision and skill would require more than even the finest craftsmen and smiths to accomplish such a task!"

"Aye, and neither are there any by such magnitude in the Seven Kingdoms, nor here in the Free Cities," Jorah stated further. "I would even question if the greatest craftsmen of Old Valyria could produce something so novel."

 _Not even they could,_ Dany thought. What she held was something unique, unheard of in the world, something beyond compare and created by someone without parallel, the apogee of modern science!

Dany set the projectiles down by the belt, the leather was worn and tired compared to the radiance of the unblemished brass. She took the time to count the loops around the belt. A total of forty-two rings designed to hold the brass projectiles encompassed the edges of the belt - only seven at present were occupied with the fascinating bolts.

Something hidden behind the empty sheath caught her eye. Dany reached for the previously unknown object, removing it from the belt and its leather sheath. In her hand was a knife of fine quality; its handle being crafted using the antler of a stag, and the blade made of fine steel if a bit damaged with a chunk being snapped off at the crossguard leaving a jagged edge.

Peculiar dark stains were smeared along the edges of the blade, even on the sides. She noticed upon scratching the blots that they would flake off and clump together as a dark red mass on the tip of her nail. It was familiar. It was a substance in which she knew of at birth, grew to hate while living in fear for her life, and soon tolerate after her marriage to Khal Drogo.

It was blood.

Dany placed the knife down on the table after brushing away the dried blood from her nail. Bringing her attention back to Jorah, who had prepared to present his next findings on the odd equipment.

The knight brought the next contraption to the forefront, it's wooden frame and unpleasant design striking to the eye and bringing back the word she had read: shotgun. "This one appears to be more-"

"There's no need for an explanation, Ser Jorah," she said.

Jorah gazed at her with interest. "Pardon, Khaleesi?"

"I already know what this one is." Dany couldn't help letting the satisfied smile come to her face. Jorah had been the one to dismiss the journal as nothing but fantasies and falsehoods, believing that nothing could come of reading the ramblings of a dying man. Oh, how he was wrong. Satisfaction rushed through her, and it became difficult to hold back the smugness that would weaken her integrity. The idea of telling the knight she had been right crossed her mind. "If I recall, the man's _journal_ had called it a shotgun."

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 _Only just to burn_

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 **IMPORTANT TO KNOW -** I wanted to have a mixture of the story styles of RDR2 and GoT, so just that everyone is aware, everything that happens in Qarth is considered the prologue of the story. What essentially is "Chapter 1" doesn't begin until Arthur leaves Qarth. An explanation for what I mean by chapter: like in RDR2 every time the camp moves there is a new chapter, that is basically what I'm doing here.

I've been gone for about 2 months now and I just want to let everyone know that I won't be sticking to any schedule for any of my stories. To post the best content I need time to write and polish my work so I might be only getting a chapter out once or twice every month, or so. If that is not the case then it only means I'm taking a break to focus on college and work.

Next chapter is Arthur I!

 **Arthur's Weapons**

 ** _Schofield Revolver_ -** Pearl grip; long barrel; improved sighting: Color: Barrel-{blued steel}; Cylinder-{silver}; Frame-{blued steel}; Hammer-{silver}; Sight-{silver}; Trigger-{silver}; Full Baroque engravings-{gold}

 ** _Sawed-Off Shotgun_ -** Improved sights; Wide grain: Color: Barrel-{blued steel}; Frame-{brass}; Hammer-{brass}; Sights-{brass}; Trigger-{brass}; Trigger Guard-{brass}; Full Ornamental engravings-{iron}; Dark walnut varnish

 _ **Antler Knife**_

 **Sweet Commander Katakuri's Review Corner :**

 **Angry lil' elf -** Thank you so much!

 **Ylnadiir -** I'm happy you like the story! And I already know how much ammunition Arthur has and how it will be used. It is more than stated in the story at current.

 **Tuan07 -** Thanks, partner! I'm happy you like the story!

 **Stylus Opium -** Revolutionary equipment in the hands of an outlaw. Thank you so much, and I'm happy you liked the story!

 **NNN11ght -** It is still being worked on, and I'm happy you enjoyed it!

 **Jim -** It is odd, and I'm happy you think I can pull it off. I'll try not to let you down!

 **Valtek -** Becoming a gunslinger is not all that easy, even with a mentor. This is not to say Daenerys won't (at some point) use Arthur's weapons…

 **ThePsychoPath96 -** In this variation, Arthur was less honorable as people would have liked and returned to the camp, but he did begin to see things differently in the end. I'm happy you liked the story!

 **Tallulah Sinclair -** Thank you so much, I'm happy you liked it! Next chapter everyone will get what they have been waiting for.

 **Blaszczu2500** **-** Thank you so much! And don't worry there will be more chapters.

 **Big Thanks To Everyone That Has Followed And Favorited The Story!**

 **Remember, if you have a question you can Private Message me or leave a Review and I will reply! If you PM me I'll be able to answer any questions before the release of a new chapter!**

 **Thank You,** **Everyone!**


	4. Arthur I

**Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Game of Thrones or Red Dead Redemption 2, and both works belong to their respective creators. All original characters and concepts are my own and do not represent the actual work of either previously mentioned titles.**

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

That's the way it is

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

 **ARTHUR**

Winds whisked westward across the countryside and carried over vast fields of barley and above the reeds of cattails over by a calm lake. Overhead, a pinch of fresh peach colored the skies and was splashed with wisps of gold and strawberry and the faint glistering light of stars that danced beyond the hills like a procession of fireflies; appearing one by one in the northeastern horizon. And as daylight slowly faded with the last of the gleaming rays cascading over the great plains of what was the American Dream, all the ring-necked pheasants, buff-bellied pipits, royal hawks and horned larks whistled their final birdsongs for that evening.

Gazing out across the idyllic farmland, the heat of the setting sun caressing his cheeks, he was suddenly overwhelmed with an acute nostalgia.

He was resting on a shabby wood fence off the side of a beaten path with his boots placed firmly on the lower crossbar. The road led to a pastoral ranch that sat in the center of a field once used for farming flocks of sheep. Far-off in the distance, between periwinkle mountains with snow-capped peaks crowned in gold, the mouth to an umbrous valley began and laid bare it's virgin hills.

The ranch was cozy and abandoned in times gone by with a single chimney and a porch wide enough for two men and a long night with women's company. Soft gray smoke rose as billows from the stack, the windows left open with pencil-thin sheets of paper - besmeared in grease - covering the apertures, and the boisterous laughter of his foster father and the more tamed chortling of his older friend could be heard across the field, bringing about a queer sense of mawkishness to the longrider Arthur Morgan.

He fiddled with the brim of his father's gambler hat, the dark leather soft against his cut and rough fingers, and brought him relief upon knowing it was there.

"I'm sick of sitting here," the adolescent at his side groused. He was a young Scot-boy nearing the age of adulthood, with uncut and unwashed crow-black hair and a sullen frown stuck on his sweat and grime covered face. They had found the stray in some backwoods homestead in Illinois, about to be strung up for stealing from the owners when their band of dreamers arrived to liberate the juvenile prince of yore, whom they came to know as the orphaned son of a calico queen.

Arthur disregarded the boy's grumblings as he kept his eyes set on the vast fields and rackety ranch out in the distance, a tobacco blanket held firmly between his lips; taking his leisure and basking in the evening's fading warmth was his only desire and he had no intention of letting an ill-mannered orphan spoil it. Ofttimes he found himself staring out into the country, savoring the refreshingly clean air of the Midwest and the smell of morning dew, and listening to crickets in pastures and the guttural croaking of spiny toads in a gentle brook, all while watching the sun crawl across the wide blue yonder.

Yet, with all the splendor there before him, little John couldn't resist being a hard case and vocalizing his frustrations. "Can we go back yet, Arthur?" he asked him.

Arthur removed the cigarette from between his lips at one and the same time as he released the thick smoke held in his lungs. "Just...give them their fun, will you? Before you head back and ruin it with all your moaning," he said, rather jaded at having to watch over John Marston while Hosea, Dutch, and Susan got to drink prairie dew and play cards.

From the edge of his vision he could see the orphan drop his head, his hair clinging to the skin of his brow. Arthur couldn't blame the kid, he had spent the day, from when the birds first took flight to the sun's creeping descent, learning his letters and how to read from Dutch, and the complexities of proper etiquette from Hosea. All the while Susan had Arthur put to work around the ranch: collecting pails of water from the calm lake, chopping billets for kindling, and carrying feed to the horses.

The afternoon's events seemed to blend together as Arthur thought about the day. Bringing the smoke back to his lips he took an overlong draw on the tobacco filled blanket, relishing in the serenity and the feeling of his taut muscles relaxing from the nicotine's pleasurable effects, before expelling it from his lungs again.

Returning his attention to the orphan once more, Arthur spared no effort in making small talk to pass the time. "How're you comin' along with your reading, John? You ain't given' old Dutch and Hosea too much trouble, are you?"

"I'm doing the best I can, but reading is hard, Arthur," John admitted. "Dutch says that if I can read the whole of _Wonderland_ , or a Charles Dickens, or Arthur Doyle, from front to back, I can come out robbing and killing with you all!"

" _You_? Robbin' and killing!" Arthur guffawed, choking for a moment on the smoke. "Stop, you're makin' me laugh!"

"I killed a man!" The orphan argued with a half-truth.

"I killed many men. More than _you_ can count," Arthur declared. "Out there they don't stand waiting for you to turn iron on them, they got guns of their own. And if you ain't quick, you're dead." He spoke in candor about the lawless west where men only recognized the pioneer's trinity: the Bible, the bottle, and the six-iron at their hip. "Anyhow, you need to know to shoot one before even thinking of ridin' with us."

"Dutch says he'll show me how."

"Yeh...I am sure that he will try," Arthur recognized. "Well after you learned to read, and eat like you weren't raised by a pack of wild animals."

Marston went quiet for a time, fostering Arthur's curiosity to tilt his head and look at the boy. His face was veiled by that unwashed, coal-black hair and by the shadows of the impending twilight; eyes and any discernible expressions were unrecognizable to the longrider the more he tried to focus his gaze on the orphan's face. His vision grew unfocused the longer he looked as if he had peered through a nebulous wall made of fog. Arthur thought to tackle the question if he had at some point drank any firewater that day or, for all he knew, some of Hosea's bumblebee whiskey - he was starting to feel a sting.

"Who taught you to shoot, Arthur?" John asked suddenly, knocking Arthur out of his stupor.

The longrider brought a hand up to knead his eyelids, rubbing away any dirt or wetness that could have worked its way into his eyes. "I learned the way everyone learns - killin' folk. Yet, it was my daddy that put a gun in my hand and showed me to shoot." Arthur fiddled with the brim of his hat once again. "He was a worthless father and a tenth-rate outlaw that never could leave things be - the no good bastard. And, well...things didn't end well for him. When he passed, I left. I shot some and I stole some. I killed greenhorns and big guns all while robbing folk well off and them who weren't. Time after that is when I met Dutch, and I've been ridin' with him since."

Resting between his lips, the cigarette was close to it's dog end, and so he breathed in the last breath, holding the smoke in his lungs while dropping the fag onto the dry, beaten path. He watched the last streaks of daylight die away over the horizon as the dark seized the sky and the twinkling stars decorated the firmament. They were clear and brilliant, their shimmering forms almost moving unnaturally across the dusk sky as if they were being pulled by strings invisible to the human eye.

The longrider turned fully to look at little John, and found the young boy to be looking at the stars, same as him. The night was too dark for him to see his face.

"Arthur," a woman's voice suddenly called out to him from afar. He didn't recognize it to be Miss Grimshaw, and found it bizarre as it seemingly came from the stars in the sky. It had called unto him a second time in a dull monotonous tone, and Arthur was slowly convinced that he had some hell of a brick in his hat to start hearing voices where there were none.

"Arthur!" A third time he was called, this voice was closer and more anxious than the previous two. It repeated multiple times, howling at him from all around the pasture. He eyed the boy to see if he was the one playing tricks on him, but found that John hadn't turned his gaze away from the skies.

"ARTHUR!" It shrieked, this time he recognizing the hoarse voice that belonged to his surrogate father, Dutch.

Looking back towards the ranch, Arthur was appalled to find their frontier home consumed by intense flames, red as blood and that towered above him and those once mighty, crowned mountains. Colossal clouds puffed out from the chimney and were swarming with hundreds of ravenous crows exploding out from within, their wings of keen obsidian cutting through the thick walls of soot. The dry timber walls and roof were lit ablaze and were left to be turned into cracklings; the open windows were irradient as the grease covered sheets of paper caught light and burned away.

From the fires he heard another voice calling him, beckoning him towards the ranch with an allure that Arthur couldn't pass over.

He ordered John not to move, already unaware that he was missing from his spot next to him. Arthur sprang off the fence and raced down the beaten path towards the aflamed ranch. Hollering for Susan and Hosea he quickened his pace, his boots smacking against sod and dry grass with every step bringing him closer to the raging flames. His shoulders heaved as his breathing became heavy and the heat from the fire became palpable.

"Dutch...Dutch!" he called out for him at the top of his lungs.

He reached the spacious porch and clambered up the stairs, bounded towards the door, kicking up soot and embers as he did. Without hesitation, Arthur reached for the doorknob and attempted to pull open the door, but something on the other side prevented it from moving.

"Hey, Dutch, Hosea! You in there!" Arthur received no response and so set about throwing his shoulder into the burning door. It didn't budge. "Open goddammit!"

He rammed his shoulder into the door again and was once more met with no results; a third time he propelled himself forward into the barrier, this time feeling the hinges give way in the smoldering frame. Steeling his nerves, Arthur gave a final push and broke through the door, it's iron hinges exploding out of the wall and the door's face splintering under his weight. Smoke as dense and black as coal surged out through the open door, the burnt remains of wood and furnishing slammed into him with a powerful blast and surrounded Arthur in an oblique cloud of soot.

"Dutch!" Arthur continued to call. "Hosea! Miss Grimshaw! Say something! Dammit, I can't-" He stooped down as he abruptly began hacking and struggling for breath as he stumbled further into the ranch.

The blaze was blistering and continued to spread, growing high enough to disappear above the dark shroud and bring the ranch down around him. A heavy sweat rolled down his brow and soaked through his shirt and his boots, and his lungs burned black and crisp while he drowned in a sea of fire and ash.

Arthur listened to the flames hiss with red tongues and the sharp cracking of wood as the night sky became visible through the collapsing roof - nary a soul could be heard within the inferno. His ears rang with the resounding beat of his heart and his eyes lost focus as the fire swirled around him in wreaths of crimson-gold flowers.

"Damn...where are you, Dut-argh!" Intense pain erupted from his side as a knife with a blade forged in the fire pierced through his skin, searing the flesh beneath. He tottered on his feet, taking cautionary steps forward while grasping the handle of the blade and tearing it out. The blade, stained red with his blood, reflected the dancing flames and was affixed to a bisected antler taken from a stag.

Letting the knife fall from his grasp, he tumbled to the ground and began hacking once again, unperturbed to be laying in mud and cinders instead of on the cracked, burning floors of the ranch. Arthur trembled violently with tears stinging the edges of his eyes while he coughed up blood blacker than the night.

"You should have run," a voice said somewhere close by as Arthur expelled the last of the vile black-blood from his lungs.

Composing himself, he frantically hunted for the source of the voice. His eyes darted from one spot in the dark haze to another, not staying on a specific area for to long. Rising above the smoke, Arthur glimpsed the silhouettes of massive buildings concealed by shadows with towers spiraling into the sky. "You should have run," it repeated.

"Where are you...you rat!" Arthur snarled as blood trailed down his chin and dripped to the muddy ground.

"You should have run," the voice continued, echoing from his left and his right, from behind him and mere feet before him. "You should have run! You should have run! You should have-"

 _RUN_ , a voice coming from somewhere deep in his subconscious yelled to him. It was a primal instinct that had activated within him, demanding that he flee for safety.

Refusing to back down against this threat, he unsteadily got to his feet. "Come out, you goddamn coward!" Arthur barked, prepared for who or whatever emerged from beyond the veil of soot and smoke. "C'mon, show yourself!"

What sounded like leaden footfalls beating against the muddy ground boomed behind him, only to vanish as quickly as it had came. Hurriedly turning on his heels, Arthur searched for the source of his foreboding thoughts. From his left the booming reappeared, this time closer and more distinct; the sound of boots slapping against mud and the distinguishingly rough reverberations of a man panting.

It was a bipedal creature that took the form of a man and that lurked somewhere within the tangible abyss surrounding Arthur, and the longer he looked the more he was aware that it was observing _him_ with four, slitted eyes.

Quikly again, the booming faded away into the night and Arthur was left with only the thundering pulse of his heart ringing in his ears. He studied where the noise had been moments ago, finding nothing but the disquieting solace of the fire's faint light within the smoke, wistful embers trying to stay alive but ultimately failing and drifting towards the earth as coarse flakes of ash.

Without warning, Arthur was toppled off his feet by a dark, wraithlike figure. His back collided hard with the ground as the uncanny predator climbed on top of him. It possessed the form of a man with unfathomable features; upon its shoulders, squealing with bloated tongues, rested the two abhorrent heads of swine. They glared down at him maliciously with the eyes of snakes, and held within gaunt hands was a knife aimed to take his life, the blade radiating a gruesome crimson after being plucked from the fires. Arthur brought his hands up and stopped the blade in it's descent, but struggled against the strength of the nightmarish creature.

"I've waited a long time to kill you," one of the swine heads spoke, it's voice dripping with venom, while the other dumbly hissed the word, "brother."

Arthur pushed back against the creature's staggering might as the point of the glowing blade inched closer towards his chest. He glanced passed the pig heads and to the sky, noticing the stars move across the endless expanse of nothingness and taking shape in the visage of a lifeless mask. In his distrait, the creature put more strength into its attack.

He watched as the burning knife plunged into his chest, powerless to stop that thing from killing him that night. Arthur laid there in a pool of mud and his own abhorrent blood with a knife made of fire buried in his chest, and the remnants of a burnt dream left to rot beneath the dispassionate gaze of stars and stone giants.

Arthur's eyes abruptly opened to the sight of an ill-lit, smooth stone ceiling and the startled expression of a young woman. He had awakened in a heavy sweat, the fine sheets that covered him were similarly drenched and clinging to his arms and legs, and the bed in which he laid had accumulated a sufficient volume of dampness to make his stay an uncomfortable one. Small movements caused the irksome sheets to tangle around his limbs and constrict him to the wool bed, making it difficult for him to rise.

As he attempted to sit up, a pair of cool hands were gently placed upon his back and arm, keeping him steady and guiding him as he rose into a comfortable position. The hands belonged to a young woman with black hair and tawny skin that glistened like amber in the brazier's firelight; her eyes, almond-shaped and dark brown, were full of concern. She spoke in short utterances with a harsh dialect, the rough and unintelligible words lurching off her tongue.

Arthur tried to speak but found that his voice didn't come, instead a scratchy cough brought him to lower his head. His mouth and throat were drying, and he could feel grains of sand grinding against his teeth. He tried to wet his lips, but was unsuccessful.

While he was distracted the woman had moved from his side to fetch a pitcher from a table close to the bed. She brought it to him while motioning for him to work his way to the edge of the bed. "Iddelat," the woman spoke in the same unintelligible tongue. "Halelat athhajar ato eth iddelat eveth…drink."

Arthur watched her for a moment, and she looked back at him with an expectant gaze. She gestured with the pitcher in hand once more while repeating what she said in a tongue he understood.

Arthur took hold of the pitcher and brought it before him. Oddly enough it was made of bronze and not of copper or pewter, or even of porcelain that the out-and-outer sported in plenty, and still showed dents and wear and was cool to touch. He waved the container from side to side and listened to the contents swash around before bringing it up to his lips and swilling the water down his throat. Some escaped from the pitcher's brim and trickled down his beard and onto his heaving chest.

"Thank you," he breathed out after taking his fill, not having realized how parched he'd been. Arthur returned the pitcher to the woman and watched as she placed it back on the table beside the bed. "Where am I?"

"Vaes Sen Gref," she answered in the foregin language while reaching for a dinky rag set on the bed sheets near them. The woman lifted another vessel from the floor, this one was a basin with a wide mouth that displayed the reflective depths of the water inside. She settled down beside him and placed the basin on her lap while soaking the rag in the water as she did.

"Where? I'm sorry, I ain't heard of a place called Vi...Visen - what was it?" He wasn't fully awake yet and was sure that he had butchered the name, but was relieved that his throat was no longer insufferably dry. She reaffirmed the name for him in the common language of the Land of Liberty - english. Yet still, after hearing the name in his accustomed tongue, but with a crude and exotic accent, the haze that was obscuring his thoughts remained and hampered any chance of him thinking clearly. "Yeh, ain't ever heard of it. That somewhere in Mexico?"

Qarth, the city named by the woman, was unfamiliar to him. He' never been nor heard of the municipality, and so questioned its location and standing within the country. _Can't be Mexico_ , he thought while looking from one dimly lit wall to another before staring out the open terrace across the vast room where the faintest smell of salt was carried in by a breeze.

He was still alive and for all he knew he was somewhere outside of Annesburg, in the State of New Hanover, rescued from the blackened remains of his camp at Beaver Hollow and taken into the custody of the amber-skinned woman. The intrusive stench of saltwater placed him somewhere close to the Lannahechee River and around the bottomlands, and the soft glow of candles in the distance only gave credence to the young woman's answer of him being in a large city, and mayhaps what the lass had called Qarth was, in all likelihood, a foreign epithet for Saint Denis.

By good fortune he didn't appear to be in the custody of the law. Having spent his fair share of nights in crowbar hotels he had become familiar with the thick iron bars and stone walls of the cells. In many he was given a cot, but was not unaccustomed with the numbing floors - if the lawmen were kind, and himself blessed by some luck, he would be gifted a clean cell. Never had he been gifted a large room with lavish decor and an open terrace. He especially never had a young woman tend to him while in captivity, although she seemed to be withdrawn and reluctant to speak with him.

Arthur was at sea on whether it had been her intention to answer him due to an obligation, or if it was a moment of hesitation and a fortuitous sense of compassion. She remained silent during her ministrations, choosing only to focus on the water-laden basin and the cascading droplets of Adam's ale as she wrung the sopping fabric, giving him no mind.

The woman guided the soaking rag across his arm to clean away sweat and grime while discarding insignificant beads of water along his skin that gleamed like liquid gold caught in the irradient flames of a goldsmith's furnace, and that flowed like ichor - that which exuded from the pious and godly, and the fool's gold that presumably ran through the veins of the wealthy and sanctimonious. Arthur's breath hitched as the woman moved to start cleansing the rest of his upper body. His skin was raw and red, considerably so, feeling as if he had been left to cook in a fire for a day and a night.

There was an awkward weight at the center of his chest that had been irritating him since he awoke out of his dream of being hedged in by a wall of fire and thrust into a sea of sweat. The room was as hot as a whorehouse on nickel night, with the open terrace and the lass bathing him being his only refuge from the insufferable heat. Although he had spent many nights the same - waking when the nighthawk took heed, soaked to the bone and airing his paunch; all due to consumption guaranteeing him a peaceful rest once he was buzzard food.

Arthur lowered his eyes to his chest to find the source of his awkward discomfort. At the center of his chest, beneath his collarbone, was a scrap of cloth that covered his skin down to his abdomen. He moved his hand up to peel away the fabric but was impeded by the woman gently taking hold of his forearm and guiding it back to his side. "Be still," she instructed him as she placed the rag back into the basin. Arthur watched her, the young lass' face bearing no emotion as she worked.

She reached for the cloth on his chest and peeled it back, revealing a thin layer of a xanthous ointment besmeared on his skin and that stubbornly clung to the retreating fabric. With the covering gone (along with his discomfort) and fresh air hitting the salve, his nameless attendant resumed with cleansing his chest.

There was a lingering pain as the woman removed the ointment from his chest, a phantom heat that burned like cool iron freshly placed in a fire. Arthur decided to move his focus away from pain and distract himself by striking up conversation. "I don't think I ever got your name, ma'am."

"This one is Irri," she said, and nothing more.

"Irri. That's a fine name, like the Great Lake." Irri carried on with her work, showing no sign that she had even heard him. Arthur cleared his throat and spotted the lass stealing a glance up at him. She was listening to him, but was choosing what she said and what questions she answered. "What happened to me?" he pried.

"Ifak lafaya…" the woman uttered as she wiped away the last of the salve. She traced the raw skin with the tips of her fingers, following an arc from below his neck to his upper abdomen just beneath his left pectoral. "Be proud. A stray touched by the moon must be proud to carry the fire bestowed by our Khaleesi."

He didn't have the chance to ask her anything further as the door to the room opened. Entering the room was a man and a woman, both of the same skin tone as Irri. The man, Arthur noticed, was larger than him with a beard covering his face and his dark hair in a short plait that reached down to his back. When his sight landed on Arthur he became guarded, but didn't show any sign of moving from the door, keeping his eyes solely on him.

The woman was taller than Irri but still fell short of the man stood behind her. She had almond-shaped, coffee-brown eyes and curly, braided-black hair that was entwined into two short plaits that swayed freely and hid her ears, and a thicker plait that rested over her shoulder. She was well-endowed, with heavy breasts and a wide waist and compared to Irri, she was bigger boned.

"Ifak latha! Irri, ela azha Khaleesi nesi!" The woman spoke quickly as she looked at Arthur, clearly surprised to see him awake. "Ela, ela!"

Irri placed the basin onto the table before she stood from the bed, worked her way passed the two standing at the door and disappeared out into the corridor, all without sparing him a glance. _Poor lass_ , Arthur thought as he watched her leave. It might have been the communication barrier between the two that had made it difficult for her to feel comfortable around him, although she seemed to grasp English rather well. Or it could have been as simple as she wanted to leave the room for the graces of the hall. Being that she may have been the one that cared for him during the later hours of half-light, Irri would have to be delighted to be free of her duty.

"Ayola mra gachesh leshitof," the woman said to the man who then grabbed the frame of the door and closed it behind him, exiting into the corridor with only a brief look back to him, leaving Arthur alone in the bedchamber with another woman to care for him. She turned to him, having lost the face of surprise, and hurried over to his bedside.

It was now that Arthur noticed the clothes held in her arms, folded into a white and golden roll. She unfurled the garments in her arms and draped them across his bed, stepping back when she was done. "Would you like help?" she asked after seeing he hadn't moved.

"Help? No, no I can handle that," Arthur breathed while looking at the clothes left for him. He pivoted in bed, fighting back a groan as his side flared with discomfort, and struggled to get onto his feet. Uneasily, he stood, and presented to the woman his personal parts. The breeze brushed past his now exposed nether regions, his unmentionables nowhere to be found. The woman stared fixedly at him with her gentle, dark-eyes dancing down his form before rising once more to rest on the cloths wrapped tightly around his gut.

Arthur paced himself while he kept a hand on the bed, trying to prevent himself from collapsing to the floor and yielding to the numbness in his chest and side that branched out, and tangled itself throughout his body and around his limbs like heavy roots. He looked at the clothes laid out before him - the shirt, or dress as it may be, was long and looked to be made out of a cloud-white material, with gold-accented patterns along the hems. Set beside it was a sash the hue of robin eggs, with gold-streaks of similar interlacing patterns running diagonally along the fabric, and the fringe decorated with white and gold tassels.

He just remained standing there, looking at the fine garments in puzzlement. Arthur reached for the white shirt but stiffened when pain exploded through his side. He turned his head back to the lass, whose eyes swiftly rose to meet his, and gave her an agitated but kind smile.

"I'm going to need your help," he acknowledged.

The woman briskly moved to his side and grabbed the shirt from the bed. She rolled-up the long white hems and raised it before Arthur. He slowly lifted an arm, attempting to not make any jarring movements, and ran it through the first sleeve. The second sleeve required not as much effort on his part as the woman assisted in pulling it over him along with the neck, and let it fall and cover him to his knees.

The shirt was made of a thin-silk and clung to his damp skin. It rested mostly on his shoulders, the expensive material cool against the wound on his chest.

Next came the shash, as the woman furled it around his midsection. She was mindful not to cause him any discomfort when tightening it. When she was done she tucked the loose end of the robin egg sash into the furled fabric and let it hang at his thigh.

Arthur attempted to express his gratitude but was interrupted when her arm snaked around his. "We must go," she said, urging him towards the door while supporting him so he wouldn't fall to the ground.

"All right, hold up." Arthur stopped her from pulling him forward. "I ain't goin' anywhere until you tell me where you're tryin' to take me."

"Khaleesi wished to meet when you awoke," she explained while turning to look up at him. He stood a head taller than her and needed to tilt his head down to look her in the eyes when standing shoulder to shoulder. "We must not keep the Khaleesi waiting any longer."

"That other woman, Irri, mentioned a Khaleesi. Who exactly do you want me to meet with?" Arthur recalled Irri saying that he had been given a fire by some Khaleesi. Considering she spoke mostly in that harsh tongue, he wasn't sure if what she had said in English was simply a mistranslation.

"She is our Khaleesi. Your savior."

Arthur remained stoic upon receiving her answer while he considered this Khaleesi's reasons for pulling him from Beaver Hollow. He was a wanted man in multiple states with a bounty of five-thousand pinned to his head, and for as long as he could recall, had his every movement hampered by the likes of bounty hunters looking to collect the reward on his head.

The times he left camp to hunt the bounties of two-bit criminals he would go out of his way to bring them back alive, with most groveling at his feet and playing the devil's part by proposing self-fulfilling deals they pulled from their ass that offered him nothing. He didn't capture them alive and restrain them like they were nothing but animals, because they were, and he didn't listen to them spew out horseshit in such a way it'd make the Reverend turn blue because he found it pleasing. No, he kept them alive because like animals they were worth more that way.

His expression turned grim as he considered the event in which he was led to this Khaleesi and was met with the barrel of a gun, and the cold embrace of chains.

When the young woman started to lead him to, and out the door. He suppressed his anxious feelings but they returned in full when he thought about his armless predicament. If he was met by the force of the law, he had no way of defending himself.

Out in the hall, Arthur had been expecting to see the man from earlier waiting, but was surprised to find nary another soul accompanying him in the passage. "This way," the woman said, guiding him down the long, stone hall. Arthur didn't need to turn around to know that the man followed them from behind, he could feel the watchful gaze on his back.

They walked slowly for his sake, the woman having to adjust her hold on him whenever one of his legs would threaten to buckle under him. She led him through the massive building, larger than any he had seen in Saint Denis. The walls were draped with light colored silk that fluttered with the breath of air coming from the open walkways. He noticed as they progressed through the halls that they became decorated with black and red silk as opposed to the peach and ivory that adorned the passages by his room. The floors had also transitioned from a reddish stone to polished marble, cold against his bare feet.

To cure his unease, Arthur began speaking with the woman. He learned her name to be Jhiqui and that she too had been saved by the individual she referred to as Khaleesi, the same person who was causing his head to swim in distress. Hiding behind a forced smile, Arthur responded to her politely, "She sounds like a kindly lady. Did this Khaleesi save him too?"

"We are all of the Khaleesi's khalasar. Aggo is of her blood and ko to his Khaleesi," Jhiqui told him.

"They're brother and sister?" he asked to which she repeated, _of her blood_. Jhiqui didn't seem to know that his question was left unanswered. Arthur moved on, "What does that make you then?"

"I belong to my Khaleesi. I'm to serve her in all her desires."

Arthur didn't know what to think. "So you're a...like what? The lady's maid? A courtesan? Or," he hesitated, "a slave?"

Jhiqui answered him with a mellowed smile. "If it's what she wishes for me," she said. "The Khaleesi is kind to slaves, and welcomes them into her embrace. It is known."

Arthur glowered at her response. Slavery never sat right with him, and the sick people of Leymone that tried to reinstate it, or even continued to sell men and women, made his ire boil. It finally spilled over when he and Lenny assailed Shady Belle, and he had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting more members of the Lemoyne Raiders. They were the rotten remains of the Confederacy that dreampt of reinstalling the slave trade in America, and he relished in every breath he took away from them - each shot from his rifle would ring like church bells as he filled the vermin with .50 calibers of searing metal.

To the Raiders, blacks were seen as less than human. They were possessions to them - not people. Tools to be used and when they've outlived their use they would be discarded and replaced.

Life was about being free, and in America life was about going anywhere and doing anything. Men couldn't live freely with their limbs restrained by iron.

Their exchange ended as they approached their destination. Another room, guarded by two more of who Arthur assumed to be the Khaleesi's men armed with what at first appeared to be sickles. They did not appear to take kindly to his approach.

Jhiqui greeted the two in their harsh tongue. They shared looks between him and his escorts, one seemingly was wary of him while the other curled his lip and growled out a response. He had been leering at Jhiqui and what he said was grating to his ears. The frown that came to her face further confirmed his assumption.

Before he could say something in defense of the lass, his second escort stepped between them and looked down on the two guards. "Govak qifo! Eyelat yer ma vineser nemo atthar," Aggo growled as the two guards stood their ground.

They looked from Aggo to him and Jhiqui before they relented and stepped aside. Aggo opened the wooden doors and Jhiqui ushered him inside, but not before Arthur locked eyes with the leering guard, letting him know just what he thought of him.

Arthur found himself stepping into a large, open room illuminated by braziers and candlelight. It was another bedroom with walls draped in silk, and furnishing scattered throughout, and the scent of salt was all but gone and replaced with the subtle savor of lavender and mint. His eyes lingered the longest on the gold decor and ornaments dispersed around the room, impressed with the wealth of the individual.

Arthur's eyes danced from one gold statue to another before they landed on the three figures in the room, one of which he recognized. Irri stood amongst the two imposing individuals; one was a man standing roughly at the same height as him, and the other was a young woman sitting behind a table, her gaze transfixed on him. Arthur regarded them with suspicion, unsure if they could be trusted as his thoughts returned to his earlier concerns dealing with Pinkertons.

The man was donning a dark-brown, leather skirt that reached below his knees held up with a studded belt, and a beige, cotton shirt with a tanned, blue-hide neckerchief. His grey eyes were sharp, capturing every movement he made walking into the room. Arthur held back a smirk when he saw one of the man's hands resting on the pommel of a sword. Almost all his worries about the law and Pinkertons left him; those snakes would sooner spill the blood of an innocent than regress back to the middle ages. Their shared adoration for modernization made them a joke out in the West, that was until more and more industrial tycoons started to move their factories and workers into the frontier, bringing the eye of the law with them.

Even if there wasn't a gun currently present in the room, the sword posed just as great of a threat, especially when he was still unwell from his last fight. He also doubted that the man before him would be fool enough to carry a sword if he didn't know how to use it. That posture and build could frighten even a bear, and Arthur was unwilling to admit that if he were to fight this man now, he would most definitely lose.

Arthur's eyes soon found themselves on the young woman sitting at the table - the Khaleesi. He had to stop himself from staring fixedly upon her, as she was dressed in a revealing, sheer gown that left one of her breasts exposed and hanging freely, and did little to conceal the other, her pink nipple poking against the light-blue fabric. She was enchanting to look at, her milky-white skin was complemented by long, silver hair that glimmered like moonlight. Her eyes were not unlike two gemstones, violet and unworldly, and focused on him with such firmness behind them that he was sure he'd lose his breath.

The woman before him was beautiful, in such a way that it was bewitching.

"I take it that your rest has granted you the strength to stand," the woman spoke in a way that demanded authority, and in accented English similar to those back east, "although not without assistance, I see." Her gaze moved away from him to Jhiqui, who lowered her head in greeting.

Slowly all the pieces came together, and Arthur felt a groan rise in his throat. He felt foolish for thinking that a woman so well off would have the need to turn him over for his bounty. Jhiqui and Irri's words returned to him, and he realized that he was dealing with an Anglomaniac.

It was only a moment after she had spoken, and yet he could feel the pressure building in the room and bearing down upon him.

Jhiqui prodded him with her arm, and soon he understood that she was waiting for him to introduce himself. Wouldn't she already know who he was? Wasn't she the one to rescue him from bleeding to death, or being burned alive at his camp? And he was wanted across multiple states, surely, she knew, which only left the question as to why she saved him.

Another moment and he hesitated as the woman looked at him expectantly. Arthur wondered if he should give them his name or use one of his fakes. If this was a ploy to see if he would easily give up his identity or lie, he was unsure how to proceed. The silence and her stare soon became unbearable, so he decided to risk being honest and cleared the lump in his throat, "Arthur...my name...it's Arthur Morgan."

He watched them. All of them. Trying to spot a hint of recognition on their faces, but was gratefully surprised by their unchanging expressions, hard as stone.

The Khaleesi turned to the man standing at her side, a questioning look now gracing her alluring features. Arthur watched as the man gave her a shake of his head - an unspoken question answered.

"Thank you for meeting with me so late, Arthur Morgan." She lifted a hand in a gesture towards the empty chair across the table from her. "Please, have a seat. It must have been arduous having to walk here so suddenly after just waking."

Arthur was grateful for the offer as he was still feeling numb in his limbs. He had Jhiqui assist him over to the chair before he placed himself in the seat, arms resting on the table. "Really you should be thanking these young ladies here. Without their help, I wouldn't have made it out of the bed."

She seemed to take kindly to his thanks as she looked to Jhiqui and Irri, giving them both a silent command and a nod of appreciation.

He sat there and waited as the two lasses that watched over him left the room without a word. They seemed content having been shown gratitude, Jhiqui giving him a smile when she had left his side, Irri sparing him just a glance.

It wasn't long before silence filled the room once again, and Arthur was left looking into the Khaleesi's violet eyes. "Do you know who I am?" The question was simple and cut straight to the point.

"I only know what I've been told...them two speak fondly of you," Arthur answered with honesty. "They say you're the one who saved my life."

His response seemed to get an odd reaction out of her. She looked confused, glancing up at the man by her side who had been watching him like a hawk. He too appeared surprised by his answer.

"What of my eyes, or the color of my hair?" she asked. "Do their appearance mean anything to you?"

Should they? He wanted to blurt out. Arthur was more curious as to who she was and why she bothered to save him than he was about her looks. Although, somehow he didn't believe her question to be made out of vanity, she genuinely wanted to know for one reason or another.

"I ain't never seen any like you, if that's what your askin'." Figuring that he answered her questions, he saw it reasonable to start asking his own, "With all appreciation, ma'am, I got a question I'd like to ask you."

She seemed to understand, and waited for his question with an impassive mask. From her side, the man lowered his hand to the hilt of the sword, and Arthur began to worry that he had overstepped. If he was going to have to fight, he'd rather try his odds with the terrace than the edge of a blade. "She is not a _madam_. You will mind that tongue and answer-"

Any impending conflict was ceased when the young woman raised her hand, the man swiftly halting his rebuke. "It's alright, Ser Jorah. I am sure Arthur Morgan meant no disrespect with his remark." He was sure of it as well, and nonetheless thankful that the man - Jorah, as he had been called - did not see fit to end his life. The young woman continued, "I understand that you may be curious about the circumstances in which you've arrived within my care. You may speak your inquiry."

"Where exactly am I?" Arthur had already asked the same question to Irri, but her answer only presented him with more questions.

"Where do you think you are?" she countered, her violet eyes studying him.

His temper began to rise and his brow tightened. Was she playing a game with him? Because he did not find it amusing. "We're in Saint Denis, or somewhere along the Lannahechee from what I can tell."

Her expression softened when he gave her his notion, and Arthur started to get a sinking feeling from the change in her character. Was he actually somewhere in the Heartlands, or, God forbid, Rhodes? He couldn't be far from where the gang's camp was, and even being in Saint Denis was a big stretch, but he only figured it due to the lights of the city and the smell of salt.

She didn't say anything as she stood from her seat, causing his doubt to grow. Arthur watched her as she exited the bedroom and out onto the terrace where the pleasant smell of lavender and mint emanated.

"I'm sorry to say that you're not where you think you are, Arthur Morgan." She sounded honest enough, he voice soft as she spoke but never losing its authority. "You're in the city of Qarth on the Jade Gates. Aggo, my ko, found you during his search in the Red Wastes and brought you-"

"That can't be right," Arthur interrupted, "I was at Beaver Hollow, last I remember. If that's what you meant by Red Wastes - it was set ablaze - but I am sure that I should be dead. I'm grateful to you for saving my life, truly, but I need to know _where_ you've taken me, _who_ you are, and _what_ you want from me?" He may have put too much venom into his questions, but he was tired of them chasing the Devil around the stump.

The young woman turned back to him, her cold mask returning to her features accompanied with a sharp look - her violet eyes commanding. Her voice didn't betray her feelings, but the sharpness of her words gave away her vexations, "Know that you have my sympathy, Arthur Morgan, but understand that if your thanks were sincere, you would not speak over me again.

"As I was saying, you were brought before me in your condition, and I was advised to have you put down. Instead I choose to save your life. I went against the interests of my people, to insure that a man I didn't know would live. Why it is you survived is for you to decide, but know that your life was a gift from me."

Arthur didn't speak, the Khaleesi having taken complete control of the conversation away from him. His silence was enough for her to continue, "This is my most trusted advisor and confidant, Jorah Mormont." She gestured towards the armed man before considering her next words. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of My Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Mother of Dragons."

She returned to the table, but remained standing so she could look down upon his baffled expression. Arthur wasn't sure what to think at the moment, his head was flooded with titles and names that meant nothing to him, and by some bizarre notion, he suspected that she was aware of that too.

"I won't pretend to understand your confusion, but be senseful when I say that I am unknowing of the lands in which you speak, and as to why you were found in the lifeless deserts," she told him, her eyes never leaving his. "What I want from you Arthur Morgan are the answers to my inquiries. You as well have much more to ask, I'm sure. We will continue with our discussion another time, for now, I ask that you return to your room and rest. Ser Jorah will show you the way."

Jorah moved to his side and waited for him to stand, which he managed after recovering from the revelation. The man was kind enough to at least help him steady himself on his feet, the time he spent sitting down allowing some of his strength to return. Arthur left the room without speaking another word, his mind floating in and out as he thought about what it all meant. He didn't know what it all meant - Qarth, Red Wastes, Targaryen, the Seven Kingdoms, none of it made a lick of sense.

He walked the halls with Jorah Mormont, neither of the two so much as saying a word. It was a shorter trip back, once he got his bearings, but the rooms and halls he passed looked the same and he was sure that if he tried to find his way alone he would have gotten lost.

"Make sure to rest," Jorah told him when they approached his room. "You may have recovered enough to walk, but your wounds still need time to heal."

"Yeh...I will, thank you," he said as he watched the man walk back the way they came.

Arthur entered his room with as much enthusiasm as when he had left it. The braziers were still burning and it looked as if kindling had been added while he was away.

He moved across the room and out onto his open terrace. The lights from the city Qarth pierced through the night and the stars overhead shined brightly. Arthur had spent many nights staring at the sky, tracing constellations or watching as stars fell across the heavens. He could tell that these weren't the ones he knew, and as he searched for the polestar he only found more unfamiliar faces.

"Where the hell am I?" he asked but didn't expect an answer - he already knew. He was in Qarth, in the care of a woman who held the beauty and mysteries of the moon. In the dark he could still see her violet, gemstone eyes watching him.

Qarth, the stars, Daenerys, the Seven Kingdoms, Arthur expected it all to fade away, and he'd wake to find himself bleeding out in the burning camp, all of it being nothing more than a fever dream.

The pain in his side flared again, and Arthur had to place a hand over the cloth bandages. It felt real, nothing like a dream, and it reminded him that he needed to lie down and rest. Retreating back to his room, he gratefully gazed at one of the luxuries he found whenever leaving camp, a comfortable bed.

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

That's the way it is

 **I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I=Ө=o=Ө=I**

I apologize for how long this chapter took to come out, it went under a lot of restarts and edits, but here it is. Next chapter might be shorter, I'm not sure, but just a heads up. I'm also probably going to go back to the previous chapters and make them better, just another heads up.

 **Sweet Commander Katakuri's Review Corner:**

 **alexisg200** **-** I'm happy that you liked the chapter, and I learned a long time ago that if I put a story on a schedule it ends up (for the most part) poorly written and more often than not just terrible. I'll be taking my time with all of my stories.

 **King Quinn Of Tucky -** A main component of black gunpowder is sulfur, and from my knowledge there is not a mention of something close to sulfur in GRRM's works. This was my first hurdle in conquering Arthur's ammunition problem, but I have a plan that does not involve quantity but focuses on quality. Be excited for Meereen and the arc after that.

 **Perseus12 -** I feel insulted, Perseus. I've seen your reviews on other stories and you always give a wowsers, but I haven't gotten that yet. I'm just messing with you though, and I'm glad you liked the chapter.

 **Gasizol -** I'm happy that you like the story.

 **hansolo18 -** I'm thrilled whenever I update. It's always a relief to finish a new chapter. I'm happy you liked it!

 **Albatross079 -** Easy there, partner. We have to remember that Daenerys is a Khaleesi, and has been traveling with a horde of warriors that pillage, rape, and destroy everything they come across. Privacy, is not something she would need to worry about when introduced with an unknown variable. Especially when it's in her camp.

 **Blaszczu2500 -** I won't lie, I was practically done with the last chapter when I saw your last review and the follow. I thought updating would be a nice gift for a new follower. Jorah training Arthur is a possibility, but there are already a few possible teachers as well.

 **Brady420 -** I agree that there would be no point in having a gunslinger without any way to use his firearms, but there is an age old lesson to be learned here known as conservation. Story wise, Arthur claims to never have been good with a bow, but my boy is a prodigy. Arthur will get a bow, and I already connected him with the means to get it.

 **Angry lil' elf -** Don't have to worry, **ALSO THIS GOES FOR EVERY READER** , if you ever wonder how my writing is coming for any story I write, just check my profile where I put a rough estimate on the completion for the next chapter, or you can just PM me. I recommend PM-ing me. The honor system in the game is in fact just a game function. Being an outlaw, robbing people, killing people, and just being a criminal to survive is not very honorable and is part of Arthur's upbringing, but I guarantee you that Arthur is still the altruistic cowboy we've all come to love. I understand your progress on your story, and can compare it to my lengthy update periods. Life is tough and it's hard to find time to write.

 **Miko 56 -** You crack me up, Miko.

 **Gman -** We all want a shotgun, Gman.

 **GrapeFanta -** Get some sleep, Grape! I promise that this story will still be there when you wake up. I'm happy you like the story!

 **Valtek -** Now that you say that, It'd be funny for someone to be looking down the barrel and accidentally pulling the trigger. The sacred rule, yes. BUT, I planned for this. Arthur helps people a lot, but he is also a killer, a thief, and an outlaw. He also likes to deny that he is a good person, but come on...we all know that he is. You hit the nail on the head with that, Arthur and Jorah are not going to be on the best of terms, but they'll have a mutual dislike for Daario. Yes, he will wield a sword at some point(s) in this story.

 **SpeakeroftheSpurned -** Thank you so much, I'm glad you like the story.

 **Shade -** I simply presented the bait and I caught some shade. I'm happy you like it! I honestly cannot wait for Arthur and Tyrion to meet; I'm sure he would be happy to know that Arthur doesn't discriminate just because someone is only half a person's height. Recreating Arthur's bullets is at current physically impossible in ASOIAF, but don't worry, I have a plan!

 **TheRealTarkus -** I'm happy you like the story, and don't worry it will get longer especially in the next few chapters.

 **BattleUnit3 -** Black gunpowder would be what he needs to make functioning bullets, and also a skilled craftsman to forge the munition. But there is no sulfur (that I know of) in the world of ice and fire. But don't worry, I have a plan! I think I'll mention the amount of ammo he has in one of the next chapters, just because I want to describe it. It's quite a bit though. I'm sure that I don't want Arthur having any longer firearm on him, as this was my decision when making the story. You're right on the money with the idea of using a bow to conserve bullets.

 **SHIPWRECK-5897 -** I'm happy you liked the chapter!

 **Blaise Welshman -** I have absolutely no idea what you were even talking about in the first half of your review. Schofield Revolvers are practically the same? The same to what? Other Schofield Revolvers? Because then I agree with you. I did go with the Sawed-Off, you'd know if you read my notes at the end of the last chapter (which I think you did). Why did I choose that over another type of shotgun? Because it's my story and that's what I decided. I'm also sure that you're referring to it being worse than other weapons in the game, but this isn't a game. The stats for the Sawed-Off can't apply to the story because reading/writing a story and playing a game are fundamentally different. This is like saying Arthur can only swim for a limit of 2 minutes, because any longer and he'd drown out of getting tired.

 **n5agam -** I wouldn't call it 'striking out' for what I have planned. Will Arthur at one point be seperate from Daenerys? Yes, and the way I plan to do that...well it'd be a first because I have not seen anyone else write this in a GOT fanfiction before.

 **Justus80 -** I'm happy you liked the story! I don't think I've answered this outside of a PM yet so I'll tell **EVERYBODY**. About Arthur's TB, if you recall that the doctor wanted Arthur to go someplace warm and dry. The Red Waste is warm (unbearably so) and dry as well, so while Arthur is in Essos his TB will be less of a problem than it has been, but it still is a problem. Keeping his guns clean won't be a problem and I already have a plan for his ammo.

 **Sandovalr77 -** No.

 **Guest #1 -** I'm glad that you like it but none of that is going to happen.

 **leetheresearcher -** Thank you for following and I hope you like the story.

 **Guest #2 -** I'll finish it.

 **Frostknight24 -** Well here it is.

 **Felipe -** Thank you, I will, and here it is.

 **Scoolio -** Happy that you like it.

 **SupergodzillaSailorCosmos -** Happy you like it and I'm writing as fast as I can. I'd rather take longer to write and deliver great chapters than write shit in a week.

 **Scoolio...again -** Here is is.

 **Jujukill -** Are you implying that this has gotten bad? I'm just kidding, here it is.

 **IamOminous -** I'm glad you liked it. Of course Arthur has an understanding of his own guns. I don't think it should be taxed or controlled. The components are easy to find but sulfur is the component that is in question in this world.

 **KonoDioDa** **-** Thank you, Dio-sama. With you stand, Za Warudo, and my stand, That's the Way It Is, we'll rule this fan-fiction cite.


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